'  / 

/  -a*  .     •      .... 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PERDITA  <*&  POEMS 


BY 
CHARLES  J.  BAYNE 


COLE  BOOK  COMPANY 
ATLANTA-GEORGIA 
1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by  Cole  Book  Company. 


PRESS  OF  FOOTE  &  DAVIES  Co.,  ATLANTA,  GA. 


Contents 


Page 

Perdita  I 

Trovato  1 1 

Wed  13 

Unfulfilled  16 

Vivien  18 

A  Fantasy  2O 

Dead  Fadette  23 

Hygeia  of  the  Wards  25 

Towards  the  Deep  27 

Artiste  29 

Be  Thou  "Kathleen"  31 

Her  Frown  33 

"There  Are  Other  Eyes  in  Spain"  34 

A  Song  of  Lost  Loves  36 

A  Dirge  38 

Val  d'Arno  40 

Venetian  Memories  41 

The  Scorn  of  the  Sky  43 

iii 


Go 
f£ 


Page 

Twin  But  Twain  45 

Afloat  47 

The  Feast  of  Fools  49 

The  Nun  51 

"Thou  Shalt  Not  Walk  Alone"  53 

A  Woeful  Ballad  of  After  Days  54 

Our  Ways  57 

Undertones  58 

Measures  60 

"When  I  Kissed  Your  Tears  Away"  61 

Love's  Afterwhile  63 

Her  Heart  65 

Entombed  66 

After  the  Strife  67 

A  Song  and  a  Sigh  69 

La  Belle  Concierge  70 

"Make  Her  Thus  Fair"  72 

"String  Me  the  Strands"  73 

Carpe  Diem  74 

"We  Love  Again"  76 

Love  at  Noon  77 

"Therefore  I  Call  You  Mine"  79 

The  Charm  Eternal  81 

The  Autumn  Gale  83 

On  Nebo  85 

In  Tenebris  87 

iv 


Page 

The  Groom's  Toast  88 

Christopher  Marlowe  90 

Resurrection  91 

Towards  Sodom  92 

"  'Twixt  Longing  and  Alarm"  93 

The  Alps  94 

"Rest  Here,  My  Pilgrim  Heart"  96 

Margery  Blair  98 

Repentance  99 

To  Angelica,  In  the  Canaries  100 

Crucita  102 

Cuba  103 

Restored  105 

Leo  XIII  106 

"My  Sea"  108 

Once  More  no 

"Spring    Is   Winter's   Warning"  112 

In  Silence  113 

The  Golden  Wedding  114 

The  Platonists  116 

Discontent  117 

Sarah  In  Town  118 

Her  Married  Name  I2O 

"These  Dog-Eared  Books"  122 

My  Ships  124 

Bas  Bleu  125 


Page 

Song  of  the  July  Fly  127 

"She  Whom  I  Loved  Is  Dead"  129 

The  Parson  134 

The  Pettifogger  141 


Acknowledgment. 


For  the  privilege  of  reproducing  those  poems  in  the  present  col 
lection  which  have  previously  appeared  in  various  periodicals,  the 
thanks  of  the  author  are  extended  to  the  respective  editors  of  The 
Atlantic,  The  Century,  The  Bookman,  The  Cosmopolitan,  The 
Independent,  Harper's  Bazar,  Puck,  Woman's  Home  Companion, 
Leslie's  Monthly  Magazine,  New  Idea  Woman's  Magazine,  and 
The  New  Orleans  Times-Democrat. 


vii 


Perdita 


As  JOCUND  June  laughs  down  the  year, 
And  poises,  pensive,  on  her  wing 

To  catch  the  perfumed  atmosphere 
Left  by  the  funeral  flowers  of  Spring, 

Her  spirit  sobered  to  deplore 

That  something  lovely  is  no  more; 

So,  with  ingenuous  joy  he  sees 

The  feathering  fern,  the  reddening  rose, 
Takes  tribute  from  the  free-born  breeze 

And  thrills  with  evening's  varying  glows, 
Until  from  joy's  own  wild  excess 
His  heart  recalls  its  one  distress. 

For  Spring  is  but  a  mocker  now, 

And  wears  her  livery  of  green 
Like  laurels  on  starved  genius'  brow, 

Or  lilies  'round  a  libertine. 
The  flowering  almond  is  her  wand, 
But  only  spectres  will  respond. 

When  last  she  rose,  swift  charioteer, 
And  at  her  morning  gate  unreined 
The  triple  skylarks  of  the  year 


To  sweep  through  cloud-drifts  unrestrained, 
He  watched  her  with  a  soul  as  light 
As  her  own  arch  and  airy  flight. 

For  then  within  his  heart  there  dwelt 
A  Spring  as  green  as  now  'tis  gray. 

With  fond  affinity  he  felt 

The  warmth  of  every  cunning  ray 

Which  limned  on  leaf  and  wave  and  cloud 

The  face  so  loved — and  disallowed. 

But  all  is  changed  !     As  some  fair  child 
Which  gives  the  bride  a  name  more  blest, 

But  with  a  fondness  over-wild 
Is  stifled  on  its  mother's  breast, 

Thus  over-cherished  Hope  has  died, 

And  Love  sits  sobbing  at  its  side. 

How  changed  indeed!     No  longer  floats 
From  nature's  morning  minstrelsy 

The  awakening  hymn,  but  measured  notes 
From  leaf-luxuriant  vine  and  tree 

Seem  blending  in  the  sad  refrain 

That  Hope  can  never  live  again. 

Be  ye  of  those  who  feel? — whose  eyes, 
By  passion  purged,  can  pierce  the  scroll 

Where  old  delirium  underlies 

That  o'er-writ  palimpsest,  the  soul? — 

Can  peer  through  glamour  into  gloom  — 

Through  kindly  roses  to  the  tomb  ? 


Be  ye  of  those  whose  broader  range 
Of  mind  and  soul  has  sadly  taught 

That  change  can  never  quite  estrange, 
Nor  wisdom  bind  rebellious  thought? — 

That  social  cities  are  but  grown 

From  those  who  dare  not  be  alone? 

For  only  those  do  I  rehearse 

His  tale  of  tenderness  and  tears. 
To  meaner  minds  the  throbbing  verse 

Were  but  a  jingle  for  their  jeers. 
This  is  his  miserere,  wrung 
From  heart-strings  too  intensely  strung. 

For  his  were  feelings  finely  wrought, 
And  his  were  passions  dark  and  deep, 

Though  they  had  found  the  calm  they  sought, 
Like  waves  which  war  themselves  asleep: 

Whate'er  the  wrecks  below,  his  breast 

Had  been,  though  rudely,  rocked  to  rest. 

How  sweet  that  period  of  repose! 

He  saw  the  world  with  other  eyes  ; 
Watched  every  softer  charm  unclose, 

And  asked  his  heart,  with  strange  surprise, 
How  could  it  vex  itself  a-sea 
When  coves  and  calms  like  this  might  be. 

But  ah  !  just  o'er  his  hillside  home 

A  storm-blown  curlew  came  one  day. 
Its  white  wings  flecked  blue  heaven  like  foam, 


And  filled  the  air  with  ocean's  spray. 
Old  instincts  quickened  ;  the  drowsy  lea 
Waked  to  the  shout:    "The  sea!  the  sea!" 

The  ardor  of  forgotten  years 

Swept  back,  and  so  intensified 
That  earlier  fancies  seemed  but  seers, 

And  this  the  love  they  prophesied. 
The  sacred  book  seemed  now  unsealed 
Which  youth's  Apocalypse  revealed. 

She  rose  before  his  ravished  eyes 

Like  some  far  landscape,  calm  and  fair, 

Disclosed  against  the  midnight  skies 
By  lightning's  unexpected  glare. 

With  pulseless  heart  he  stood  and  gazed, 

At  once  enraptured  and  amazed. 

She  seemed  the  very  self  of  grace 
Made  manifest  in  womanhood ; 

The  type  of  some  intended  race 

Withdrawn  because  the  world  was  rude; 

A  soul  which  stooped  to  pose  in  clay 

For  some  ideal  swept  away. 

The  stately  rhythm  with  which  she  stepped, 
Where'er  her  footsteps  led,  was  such 

As  if  unconsciously  she  kept 
Responsive  time  to  every  touch 

Of  rustling  folds  which  first  expressed 

Their  rapture  o'er  the  form  caressed. 


Her  voice  ?     Perhaps  Prometheus,  freed, 
Had  filched  it  from  the  heaven  of  sound, 

Or  Pan  bequeathed  his  mellow  reed 
To  speak  a  language  more  profound. 

It  was  a  mortal  note  to  chords 

Which  immortality  affords. 

A  Parian  chalice  was  her  cheek, 

Through  which  the  warm  blood  blushed  like  wine ; 
And  could  some  lordly  lips  bespeak 

One  draught  so  rich  from  Autumn's  vine, 
The  heart  it  cheered  would  gladly  pour 
Red  drop  for  drop  to  purchase  more. 

The  depth  of  her  expressive  eyes 

Seemed  meant  to  shame  the  pride  of  speech. 
Her  smiles  made  wisdom  seem  less  wise 

For  all  it  could  not  hope  to  teach. 
Her  breast,  in  its  own  strength  secure, 
Though  earthly  warm,  was  heavenly  pure. 

The  night  beheld  her  darker  hair, 

The  brighter  gems  which  there  she  wore, 

Then  snuffed  its  stars  with  angry  air 
And  crimsoned  into  day  once  more. 

She  was  the  all  of  love  distilled, 

The  heart's  forefancied  dream  fulfilled. 

And  when  they  two  stood  face  to  face 

'Twas  not  as  strangers,  but  with  eyes 
Which  seemed  endeavoring  to  retrace, 

5 


With  vague  misgivings  and  surprise, 
Features  once  held  supremely  dear, 
But  lost  in  some  remoter  sphere. 

For  them  no  slow  and  courtly  arts, 
But  conscious  kinship,  more  intense 

For  all  the  years  their  yearning  hearts 
Had  felt  the  lone  and  subtle  sense 

Of  some  perfecting  part  denied, 

Which  fate,  in  pity,  now  supplied. 

Ah!  happier  pair  than  they  who  sowed 

Young  earth  with  thorns!  their  love  so  pure 

Was  sin  against  man's  flippant  code, 

And,  lashed  by  hands  which  failed  to  lure, 

These  left  the  world  behind,  and  felt 

That  it  was  Eden  where  they  dwelt. 

An  Eden  ?     Yes,  but  even  here, 
In  this  new  garden  where  the  soul 

Heard  not  the  voice  of  God  with  fear, 
A  deadlier  than  the  serpent  stole, 

And  they  who  walked  with  hearts  elate 

Yet  glimpsed  the  skulking  form  of  Fate. 

They  read  the  portent  well,  and  knew 
The  cup  which  held  the  evening's  wine 

Must  hold  the  morning's  tears  ;  that  through 
Their  thatch  the  stars  must  shortly  shine. 

"But  this,"  they  said,  "is  love's  own  day, 

So  be  to-morrow  what  it  may. " 

6 


Their  passion  but  intensified 

That  they  so  soon  must  meet  no  more, 
As  currents  which  would  calmly  glide, 

If  smooth  their  bed  and  broad  their  shore, 
But  dash  with  swift,  impetuous  shocks 
Between  the  channel's  narrowing  rocks. 

The  focused  frenzy  of  their  bliss, 

In  those  brief,  wind-winged  days,  outburned 
Linked  years  where  each  complacent  kiss 

With  lazy  dalliance  is  returned; 
'Twas  as  the  attar  drop,  which  yields 
The  perfume  of  imprisoned  fields. 

And  worthy  was  the  ground  where  sprang 

Their  fresh  Tilphossa  of  delight; 
The  birds,  how  soulfully  they  sang! 

How  deeply  shone  the  stars  of  night! 
There  syrrfpathy  became  a  scene, 
And  feeling  clothed  itself  in  green. 

The  columned  mansion  where  she  dwelt 
With  towering  oaks  was  sentried  'round — 

A  grove  where  Druids  might  have  knelt 
And  deemed  their  ancient  rites  refound. 

Cool  walks  which  wound  through  tangled  flowers 

Led  shy  love  to  inviting  bowers. 

Through  twining  boughs  their  love-bright  eyes 

Caught  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of  heaven, 
As  though  the  blue  but  faithless  skies 


To  hope  a  taunting  sign  had  given, 
And  night  had  lent  each  shimmering  star 
To  make  the  spirit  sigh,  "How  far!" 

Beyond,  a  meadow,  mild  and  green, 

Declined  reluctantly  away, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  favored  scene 

Where  her  light  steps  were  wont  to  stray, 
Melting  in  graceful  lines  until 
Its  grief  became  a  tearful  rill. 

Beside  the  purling  stream  grew  wild 
A  myriad  flowers  to  cheer  its  flow, 

And  there  the  droning  bees  beguiled 
Despairing  hearts  to  steep  their  woe. 

All,  all  conspired  to  feed  the  fires 

Which  brightlier  burn  as  hope  expires. 

Each  day  the  lovers  and  the  dawn 
Kept  triple  tryst,  with  face  aglow 

That  night's  dark  arras  was  withdrawn; 
Then  heart  met  heart  with  mingling  flow 

As  in  his  warm,  exulting  arms 

He  clasped  her  rich  and  rounded  charms. 

They  wandered  through  all  solitudes 
Of  sun  and  shade  —  to  both  allied 

By  introspection's  varying  moods  — 
Affection  bidding  them  abide 

Where  sportive  sunbeams  scampered  down 

To  tinge  the  teeming  fields  with  brown; 

8 


And  then,  the  undertrend  of  doom, 
Recalling  all  they  soon  must  bear, 

tJntil  the  woodland's  sober  gloom 
More  fitly  harbored  their  despair. 

Through  all,  the  strings  so  deeply  mute 

Declared  how  sweet  had  been  the  lute. 

With  large-eyed  look,  the  native  speech 
Of  tenderness  too  deeply  wrought 

For  weakling  words  to  ever  reach, 

They  shared  each  changing  swell  of  thought, 

Or  mused  upon  the  westering  sun 

Until  the  hope-like  day  was  done. 

Then  when  the  welcome  night  came  down, 
And  perfumes  filled  the  freshening  air, 

She  kissed  his  troubled  brow  of  brown, 
Shook  out  the  curtains  of  her  hair 

And  wooed  him,  on  her  warm,  white  breast, 

With  heaving  lullabies,  to  rest. 

At  last  it  came  —  the  parting  hour  — 
The  hour  of  passion  and  of  pain, 

To  sear  and  sanctify  the  bower 

Where  bliss  could  never  bloom  again. 

Their  mad  hearts  throbbed,  their  dim  eyes  filled 

With  dews  which  sorrow's  night  distilled. 

One  wild  embrace,  as  like  to  crush 

What  life  their  crushed-out  hope  had  left, 
A  stifled  sob,  a  tenser  hush  — 


'Twas  done.  — They  took  the  tangled  weft 
False  Fancy  wove  and  made  a  shroud 
For  Peace. — Then  morning  and  the  crowd. 

They  who  behold  them  say  they  smile; 

'Tis  but  a  parting  of  the  lips 
Which  with  their  feelings  reconcile 

As  idle  seaweed  unto  ships. 
'Tis  but  the  phosphorescence  shed 
Above  the  mute  and  moldering  dead. 

They  who  behold  them  say  the  rose 
Upon  their  cheeks  is  still  a-blush. 

Alas  !  the  world  too  rarely  knows 
The  healthy  from  the  hectic  flush. 

They  laugh,  but  'tis  a  maniac  mirth 

Which  in  distracted  hearts  has  birth. 

But  if  ye  be  of  those  whose  range 
Of  mind  and  soul  has  sadly  taught 

That  change  can  never  quite  estrange 
Nor  wisdom  bind  rebellious  thought, 

Ye  know  why  all  the  warmth  of  May 

Still  leaves  the  lichened  grave-stone  gray. 


10 


Trovato 


Is  IT  but  the  idle  fancy 

Of  a  mocking  necromancy 
That  together,  leaf  and  blossom,  by  the  Indus  once  we  grew, 

And  that  Hafiz  came,  or  Omar, 

To  imprison  the  aroma 
In  some  half-remembered  measure  which  has  rhythmed  me  to  you  ? 

Is  it  false  or  is  it  real 

That,  in  ages  more  ideal, 
I  was  song  and  you  were  Sappho;  you  were  sunbeam,  I  the  dew? 

For  I  long  have  felt  the  burgeon 

Of  a  passion,  vague  and  virgin, 
Which  you  quicken  to  remembrance  of  a  former  life  we  knew. 

Were  you  stream  when  I  was  willow? 

Was  I  shell  when  you  were  billow? 
For  your  voice  has  ever  echoed  through  the  hushes  of  my  heart ; 

And  it  seems,  as  I  behold  you, 

That  the  very  air  foretold  you 
By  the  fragrance  which,  in  welcome,  all  the  budding  boughs  impart. 

But  at  last  I  stand  beside  you, 
And  the  fate  which  long  denied  you 
Yields,  in  recompense,  a  dearer  incarnation  than  my  dream. 

II 


What  I  sought  to  what  you  are,  Love, 
Was  as  twilight  to  the  star,  Love, 
As  the  languor  is  to  summer,  as  the  murmur  to  the  stream. 

And  since  age  on  age  has  perished 

But  to  bring  the  soul  I  cherished, 
Wherein  thought  and  feeling,  blended,  are  as  petal  and  perfume 

Let  us  linger  here  forever, 

Where  the  pride  of  all  endeavor 
Is  a  fervor  which  to  passion  is  as  glamour  unto  gloom. 

Yet,  if  Fate  reserves  its  malice 

But  to  break  the  lifted  chalice, 
Let  me  mingle  with  the  elements,  where  once  I  was  a  part; 

Then,  on  some  supernal  morning 

Which  your  beauty  is  adorning, 
As  a  dewdrop  in  a  lily,  I  may  nestle  in  your  heart. 


12 


Wed 


THE  lights  of  yesternight  are  out, 

And  their  extinguished  ray 
Has  left  a  deeper  gloom  to  flout 

The  scene  which  once  was  gay. 
The  wine-sprent  board,  the  shattered  flowers, 
Bespeak  the  cheer  of  vanished  hours. 

The  kiss  is  cold  upon  the  lips 

Which  swore  a  treacherous  troth; 

The  honeyed  cup's  deceptive  sips 
Are  now  a  tasteless  froth. 

The  tripping  measures  now  are  mute; 

The  worm  is  feeding  on  the  fruit. 

But  in  our  lives  a  lonelier  waste 

And  darker  night  succeed  ; 
The  flowering  hope  that  hour  effaced 

Is  now  a  withered  weed. 
The  cup  which  held  our  votive  wine, 
Alas  !  lies  shattered  at  the  shrine. 

They  who  have  never  seen  the  light 

Are  but  one-half  so  blind 
As  those  whose  overdazzled  sight 

13 


Has  left  its  gloom  behind. 
The  heart  whose  feelings  once  were  fond 
Alone  is  tensioned  to  despond. 

The  glittering  round  of  pledge  and  jest 
Needs  must  have  wrung  thy  soul, 

When  Memory,  that  unbidden  guest, 
Pushed  by,  untouched,  his  bowl, 

And  with  his  sad,  reproachful  gaze 

Called  back  the  truth  of  other  days. 

For,  though  thy  heart  feel  vaguely  void, 
Uncrushed  lies  many  a  seed, 

And  love  will  linger  undestroyed  — 
Just  bruised  enough  to  bleed; 

The  dreams  thus  temporized  to  rest 

Will  scorn  a  burial  so  unblest. 

Within  that  warm  and  roseate  room 
'Tis  well  that  all  shone  bright, 

For,  shamed  to  see  thee  thus  assume 
The  meaning  veil  of  white, 

The  moon's  once  soft,  approving  rays 

Were  shadowed  in  a  deepening  haze. 

Ah  !  yes,  'tis  well,  for  that  one  hour 

Of  splendor  and  of  pride 
Must  weigh  against  the  crushing  power 

Of  years  unsanctified. 
The  vows  which  gave  our  love  the  lie 
Have  wrought  a  tether,  not  a  tie. 


And  when  his  lips  shall  claim  their  right, 
And  when  his  arms  shall  twine 

The  form  which  glowed,  that  parting  night, 
Responsively  to  mine, 

Beware  lest  he,  poor  fool,  should  know 

Wherefore  thy  bosom  trembles  so. 

Beware  lest  sleep  should  lead  thee  back 

To  some  familiar  scene 
Where  love  has  left  its  truant  track, 

And  former  fields  are  green; 
For  thou  must  "  murder  sleep,"  lest  he, 
Unsleeping,  hear,  and  murder  thee. 

When  infant  cheeks  shall  press  thine  own, 

And  wake  one  hallowed  flame, 
How  poorly  will  that  love  atone 

For  all  he  could  not  claim! 
Yet  warmlier  nurse  thine  Alpen-rose 
Because  it  flowered  amid  the  snows. 

Down  with  the  pandering  creeds  which  hold 

Affection's  holier  law 
Subaltern  to  the  bonds  which  gold 

And  ritual  rote  may  draw! 
Down  with  the  mockers  who  declare 
The  incense  purer  than  the  prayer! 

I  hold  a  higher  creed,  which  scorns 

The  tinsel  ties  of  lust  ; 
Which  neither  wealth  nor  power  suborns  — 

A  scale  forever  just. 
Belshazzar,  too,  with  heathen  fume 
Steeped  Judah's  vessels.     Read  thy  doom! 

15 


Unfulfilled 


MY  soul  is  silent  now; 

The  voice  of  grief  is  weak ; 
But  such  as  Sinai's  burning  brow 

Once  heard,  it  yet  shall  speak. 

What  then  the  Prophet  saw 
Was  those  convulsive  throes 

When  nature  first  gave  birth  to  law, 
And  love's  dominion  rose. 

But  when  it  speaks  again  — 

This  Sinai  of  my  soul  — 
In  wrath  at  love  and  law's  disdain 

Its  thunder-bursts  shall  roll. 

My  grief  shall  find  a  tongue,  — 
Not  in  my  brooding  breast, 

But  in  thine  own,  by  conscience  stung, 
My  wrongs  shall  be  confessed. 

Responsive  passions  prove 
The  Godhood  of  the  heart; 

Alliance  is  the  law  of  love  — 
And  yet  we  dwell  apart. 

16 


Sea-trothed  the  rivers  roll  ; 

The  ring-doves  coo  to  mate  ; 
Then  can  it  be  that  soul  from  soul 

Should  part  —  and  call  it  Fate? 

You  bade  me  go  —  I  go  ; 

Nor  envy  him  the  kiss 
Thy  cold  and  loveless  lips  bestow 

In  mockery  of  bliss. 

Be  his  the  Judas  brand, 

Though '"  'tis  thyself  thus  sold  ; 

The  jeweled  Jura  of  thy  hand 
Will  glitter,  though  so  cold. 

Be  mine,  through  coming  years, 
The  memory  of  that  hour 

The  dearer  diamonds  of  thy  tears 
Confessed  affection's  power. 

Be  his  the  loveless  tie; 

Though  tieless,  love  was  mine. 
The  watered  lees  may  liquefy, 

But  never  can  be  wine. 


Vivien 


WHEN  twittering  swallows  sweep  the  skies, 

And  deep-wood  doves  are  cooing  ; 
When  every  breeze  from  flowered  leas 
Is  drowsy  with  the  drone  of  bees 

And  sweets  of  sunny  brewing, 
The  happy-hearted  say,  "  How  fair  ! " 

'  'Tis  May-time  !  "  sing  the  mated  ; 
But  Vivien,  Vivien,  luster-eyed, 
My  Vivien,  long  denied, 
'Tis  yours  to  bring  the  breath  of  spring 

For  which  my  soul  has  waited. 

When  sunset  sobers  into  gloom, 

And  gloom  to  moonlight  mellows  ; 
When  Hesper  pales,  and  nightingales 
From  leafy  knolls  and  lonely  vales 

Are  calling  to  their  fellows, 
The  overwearied  sigh,  "  Repose  ! " 

With  dreams  their  sorrows  lighten  ; 
But  Vivien,  Vivien,  hazel-haired, 
My  Vivien,  long  despaired, 
'Tis  yours  alone,  with  touch  and  tone. 

My  night  to  calm  and  brighten. 


18 


When  Memory,  from  her  loom  of  light, 

Wove  out  her  fairest  fancies, 
Where  hope  could  trace  that  tender  grace 
Which,  God-like,  quickens  form  and  face, 

And,  mortal-like,  entrances, 
"How  constant  to  ideals,"  I  mused, 

"Are  mind's  inconstant  creatures!" 
But  Vivien,  Vivien,  heaven-exiled, 
My  Vivien,  earth-beguiled, 
I  could  not  guess  that  each  impress 

But  wore  thy  destined  features. 

When  Spring  is  in  the  crimpled  leaf, 

And  moonlight  melts  to  morning  — 
When  Memory  veins  with  somber  grains 
The  beauty  of  her  woven  skeins, 

And  hope  is  half  a  warning, 
Grief,  on  her  tear-drop  rosary, 

Tells  off  the  mocking  hours  ; 
But  if,  my  Vivien,  love  unfold 
Its  petaled  heart  of  gold, 
The  brown  old  earth  shall  bud  with  mirth 

And  life  shall  laugh  with  flowers. 


A    Fantasy 


ON  a  time,  when  I  was  yet  her  halting  claimant, 
And  debated  what  we  may  not  understand, 
I  beheld  her,  as  she  stood  in  scarlet  raiment  — 
A  lily  in  her  hand. 

She  had  come  as  if  she  vaguely  thought  of  veiling 

Half  the  splendor  of  her  beauty  in  the  gloom 
Which  had  gathered  while  the  ember  light  was  failing 
Within  a  lonely  room. 

How  the  darkly  rich  apparel  softly  folded 

All  her  sinuous  young  form  in  its  embrace  ! 
But  the  lily,  in  a  hand  divinely  molded, 

Leaned  lightly  to  her  face. 

Even  whiter  than  the  lily  were  her  eye-lids, 

Yet  her  eyes  were  dark  as  passion,  when  upturned, 
As  if  underneath  those  wavering  and  shy  lids 
A  tropic  ardor  burned  — 

Burned  the  fervor  of  all  sleeping,  mad  desires  — 

All  the  languor  of  a  luscious  Asian  June, 
When  the  earth  is  faint  with  Summer's  ripening  fires 
And  seems  awhile  to  swoon. 

20 


Down  her  forehead  rolled,  in  elemental  wildness, 

Trailing  cloud-racks  from  the  tempest  of  her  hair, 
Underneath  which,  like  a  moon-rift,  shone  in  mildness 
A  brow-line  pearly  fair. 

Thus  she  came,  and  thus  she  spake  —  in  words  unuttered 

Spake  with  budding  lips  that  blossomed  not  in  speech : 
"Look  upon  me!     I  am  fair!     The  bird  has  fluttered, 
And  rests  within  your  reach. 

"Look  upon  me!     I  am  fair!  and  in  my  raiment 

You  have  seen  the  outward  symbol  of  my  soul ; 
All  the  passion  that  is  pulsing  for  a  claimant 
Will  leap  to  your  control! 

"But  upon  my  breast  I  hold  this  fragile  lily; 

You  shall  crush  it  in  the  fervent  first  embrace; 
Then  whatever  else  go  well  with  us  or  illy, 
Its  petals  die  apace." 


In  the  twilight  room  I  left  her  with  her  lily, 

But  the  vexing  vision  sought  me  in  my  dream. 
God !  which  is  it,  when  the  night  is  wan  and  stilly — 
Things  are,  or  only  seem? 

Once  again  she  stood  before  me ;  but  a  vesture 

Of  white  samite  floated  'round  her  like  a  cloud; 
Utter  passiveness  of  feature,  form,  and  gesture 
All  passion  disavowed. 

21 


Not  a  zephyr  of  the  tempest  now  was  stirring 

Where  her  raven  hair  was  braided  on  her  brow ; 
Not  a  hint  of  hidden  mystery  was  blurring 
The  eyes  upon  me  now. 

But  the  lily,  late  imperiled  as  a  warder 

Between  her  and  my  rapturous  embrace  — 
It  had  vanished ;  and  a  poppy,  red  with  ardor, 
Was  flaming  in  its  place. 


22 


Dead    Fadette 


AH,  me,  but  the  mold  is  damp  and  cold, 

And  close  is  the  dwelling  place 
Which  the  faithful  few  who  saw  me  through 

Have  assigned  in  Pere  la  Chaise! 
And  the  wavy  hair,  which  was  all  too  fair, 

Uncurls  down  over  my  face. 

Does  the  restless  tide  of  the  world  outside 

Roll  by  with  the  old-time  swell? 
Do  the  lights  still  blaze  in  the  gay  cafes, 

And  the  mirth  run  'round  as  well 
As  if  there  were  yet  no  dead  Fadette? 

Is  it  bright  on  Sa'n'  Michel? 

It  seems  that  I  hear  small  grass  roots  near, 
As  they  break  through  the  crusted  loam; 

Can  it  be  so  long  since  I  left  the  throng 
Where  the  midnight  beakers  foam, 

As  the  chansons  rise  to  the  waking  skies 
From  beneath  the  Pantheon's  dome? 

I  know  not  the  hours  this  long  night  devours! 

Has  the  butterfly  burst  his  cell? 
Do  the  gardens  glow  with  the  blooms  that  blow 

23 


In  the  beds  I  knew  so  well  ? 

Or  the  cold  rains  beat  on  the  glistening  street? — 
Is  it  bright  on  Sa'n'  Michel? 

Poor,  pretty  Fadette  !     Her  cheeks  are  wet, 

But  not  with  the  April  tears, 
Ever  ready  to  rise  in  her  bright,  blue  eyes, 

In  the  volatile  by-gone  years! 
Have  they  all  forgot  that  her  eyes  shine  not, 

And  her  form  no  more  appears? 

Ho,  Ganymede,  there,  with  mincing  air, 

Some  wine,  of  the  rich  Moselle! 
Rape  the  dustiest  bins! — Friends,  here's  to  our  sins! 

And  the  sins  of  our  friends  as  well! 
Now  a  hearty  "  Toujours  vive  la  joie,  vive  I' amour  !" 

Make  it  bright  on  Sa'n'  Michel! 

Ah,  no  !     I  but  dream,  for  the  lights  that  gleam 
Are  those  that  the  grave  damps  shed; 

Nevermore  can  wine  send  a  thrill  divine 
Through  the  veins  whose  warmth  has  fled. 

In  a  last  embrace,  here  in  Pere  la  Chaise, 
Poor,  pretty  Fadette  is  dead! 

And  this  is  the  wage  which  saint  and  sage 

So  futilely  still  foretell 
For  the  sun-bright  soul  which  defies  control, 

Laughing  rosily  on  to  dwell 
Where  the  feverish  race  leads  to  Pere  la  Chaise 

From  the  lights  of  Sa'n'  Michel. 

24 


Hygeia  of  the  Wards 


WHEN  the  shapes  which  pain  paints  dark  on  the  brain 

Scowl  back  from  the  casement  square — 
When  the  gargoyles  peer  with  a  bleary  leer, 
And  the  black  bats  float  through  the  air, 
My  warder  with  the  soft,  cool  hands, 

As  you  sit  serenely  by, 
With  a  look  that  understands, 
How  brightly  real  is  your  eye! 

When  Caliban  sprawls  on  the  crawling  walls, 

Enwreathed  with  a  garland  of  girls, 
And  the  sea-weed,  pied  with  eyes  that  have  died, 
Sweeps  by  on  the  tide  of  their  curls, 
My  watcher  with  the  calm,  fair  face, 

Making  ever  my  care  your  care, 
There  breathes  a  wholesome  grace 

From  the  waves  of  your  nut-brown  hair. 

When  into  the  ear  which  needs  must  hear, 

With  iterant,  iterant  fall, 
All  the  long  night  through  doth  still  pursue 
The  fantasy's  whispered  call, 
Hygeia  of  the  footfall  soft, 

Who  comes,  and  the  wards  rejoice, 
Hale  winds  from  the  wood  and  croft 
Are  stirred  by  your  morning  voice. 

25 


When  the  treacherous  edge  of  the  beetling  ledge 

Crumbles  off,  and  the  senses  swim, 
As  the  winds  sweep  by  with  a  shriek  and  cry 
From  the  depths  that  are  cold  and  dim, 
As  you  sit  at  the  cot-side  there, 

With  a  finger-touch  firm  and  sure, 
I  am  snatched  from  the  eddying  air 
To  the  footing  that  is  broad  and  secure. 

When  the  days  of  peace  shall  bring  release, 

And  the  grotesque  walls  are  bare, 
One  trace  of  pain  I  shall  yet  retain 
Of  the  coverlid  land  of  care; 

And  ever  when  the  torn  feet  bleed, 

In  what  land  soever  they  fare, 
My  heart  shall  turn  in  its  need 

To  the  hands  that  healed  me  there. 


26 


Towards    the    Deep 

LET  the  lilies  flaunt  their  graces, 

Since  the  golden  hearts  which  bide 
In  the  folded  buds'  embraces 

Will  adorn  a  richer  tide. 
Statelier  swans  will  sweep  the  lake 
When  the  cygnets  quit  the  brake 
Where  the  Undines  lave  their  faces, 
Unespied. 

More  melodious  Junes  are  sleeping 
In  the  lingering  linnet's  throat, 
And  a  richer  dawn  is  peeping 

Where  the  sunset  aureoles  float; 
When  the  plaintive  minor  dies 
All  the  grand  crescendos  rise, 
Deeper  rapture  onward  sweeping, 
Note  by  note. 

And,  as  Sulla's  rebel  minion 

Vaunted  more  the  rising  sun, 
Love  may  turn  on  listless  pinion 

When  the  zenith  well  is  won, 
Spelled  by  some  diviner  glow 
Which  affection  yet  may  know, 
Since  through  even  hearts  Hercynian 
Danubes  run. 

27 


Hence  I  wait  till,  through  the  hushes 

Which  thy  latent  passions  keep, 
Like  some  rosy  dream  that  blushes 
On  the  russet  bough  of  sleep, 
Love  shall  leap  and  greet  my  own 
With  an  ardor  yet  unknown, 
As  the  deep-born  river  rushes 
Towards  the  deep. 


Artiste 


WHEN  April  pipes  her  pastoral  note, 

And  all  the  daisies  dance, 
You  catch  the  fairy  festival 

And  fix  the  green  expanse  ; 
When  Memory  pipes  the  Graces  down 
In  their  elusive  guise, 
They  all  assume 
Your  shape  and  bloom, 
And  dartle  with  your  eyes. 

When  Summer  drowses  into  dreams, 

And,  dreaming,  laughs  in  flowers, 
You  hold  the  riches  of  her  prime 

Against  the  brigand  hours  ; 
When  Fancy,  steeped  in  slumber,  yields 
Some  echoes  of  your  voice, 
Beyond  the  spell 
Those  echoes  dwell, 
And  bid  me  still  rejoice. 

When  Autumn,  from  her  russet  locks, 
Shakes  dapples  brown  and  bright, 

You  garner  shadows  into  sheaves 
And  bind  them  with  the  light  ; 

When  Fortune,  from  her  checkered  store, 

29 


Dispenses  joy  and  care, 

Through  you  I  find 

A  hope  to  bind 
The  gleanings  of  despair. 

When  through  old  Winter's  tattered  cowl 

His  snowy  tonsure  peers, 
The  glory  'round  his  dying  brow 

You  give  to  future  years. 
So,  when  life's  withered  joys  reveal 
The  cheerless  waste  below, 
Your  vanished  face 
Bequeaths  its  grace 
Through  Memory's  golden  glow. 


Be    Thou  "Kathleen' 


ANGELS  enough  Heaven  holds  in  its  glory, 

Far  off,  unseen: 
Come,  sweeten  earth  and  make  life  a  new  story; — 

Bethou  "Kathleen!" 
Though  many  mansions  rise 
Radiant  in  Paradise, 
Though  happy  flowers  blow 
Where  the  cool  waters  flow, 

Bethou  "Kathleen!" 

Not  in  the  fictional  fashion  of  fairy-land, 

Not  as  a  queen, 
Not,  baladora-like,  treading  a  saraband, — 

Come  as  "Kathleen." 
Angel,  queen,  fay  thou  art, 
Yet  to  this  clay  thou  art 
Dearer  when  nearer,  and 
I  by  your  side  may  stand  ; 

Bethou  "Kathleen!" 

Leave  to  more  shallow  hearts  moods  that  are  airier; 

Wear  in  thy  mien 
Gentle  assurance  that  never  a  barrier 

Barreth  Kathleen. 

31 


Then  shall  my  heart,  aflame 
With  that  enkindling  name, 
Say,  "  Thou,  my  best  employ, 
And  thou,  my  dearest  joy, 

Be  thou  Kathleen!" 

Time  will  not  stay, — alas!  see  how  the  winged  years 

Pass  as  the  sheen 
Glints  o'er  the  meadow-lands  where  wave  the  ripened  ears 

Be  thou  "Kathleen!" 
Into  these  seeing  eyes  — 
Where  now  the  tears  arise  — 
Soon  dusty  death  must  be 
Blown  from  Life's  arid  lea  ; 

Be  thou  "Kathleen!" 


Her   Frown 


THERE  is  magic  in  the  music  when  the  fountains  of  her  mirth 
Into  liquid  waves  of  laughter  ripple  down  ; 

And  her  eyes  a  deeper  rapture 

In  their  dreamy  moments  capture, 
But  I  cherish  most  her  features  archly  gathered  in  a  frown. 

In  the  masquerade  of  faces  desolation  wears  a  smile, 
While  the  gravest  in  demeanor  is  the  clown  ; 

But  I  know  that  in  revealing 

Every  transient  thought  and  feeling 
She  is  nearest  when  her  forehead  sweetly  furrows  with  a  frown. 

In  her  eyes  there  gleams  a  splendor  which  no  shadows  can  subdue, 
Like  the  glint  upon  the  waving  fields  of  brown  ; 
As  the  glowing  embers  mingle 
With  the  ashes  on  the  ingle, 

Glows  her  soul  among  the  thoughts  which  gravely  wait  upon 

her  frown. 

All  the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  which  her  April  eyes  assume 
Wear  a  charm  of  which  this  aspect  is  the  crown  ; 
And  if  she  could  guess  the  ardor 
Of  my  thoughts  as  I  regard  her, 
How  I  wonder  would  her  features  coldly  gather  in  a  frown  ! 

33 


"There  Are  Other  Eyes  in  Spain' 

THERE  are  other  eyes  in  Spain, — 

Dark  and  dazzling  eyes,  Crucita, 
Rosebud  lips  which  wait  the  rain 

Like  the  harvest  for  Demeter. 
Do  not  distance  with  disdain: 
There  are  other  eyes  in  Spain. 


Thou  art  fashioned  in  a  mold 
Of  the  most  symmetric  graces  ; 

Thy  brown  beauty  is  extolled 
As  alone  the  fairest  face  is. 

But  how  foolish  to  be  vain ! 

There  are  other  eyes  in  Spain. 

There  is  music  in  the  tone 
Of  thy  syllables,  and  silence, 

With  a  sweetness  all  its  own, 
Compensates  for  words'  exilence. 

But  in  pride  be  this  thy  strain: 

There  are  other  eyes  in  Spain. 


I  have  loved  thee;  yea,  perhaps 
There  is  still  a  tender  feeling; 


34 


But  beware  the  cold  relapse 

Of  a  long  neglected  kneeling. 
Love  will  spread  its  wings  again: 
There  are  other  eyes  in  Spain. 


35 


A  Song  of  Lost  Loves 


TRINITA,  Crucita,  Anita  — 

Through  the  gathering  mist  of  the  years, 
With  the  infinite  graces  of  dimpled,  brown  faces, 

How  roguishly  each  of  you  peers! 
Have  I  not  said,  "Get  thee  behind  me!" 

And  long  since  forgotten  the  roll  — 
Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita  — 

Of  the  liquids  which  captured  my  soul? 

Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita  — 

Why,  the  day  of  our  passion  is  dead. 
My  thoughts  must  not  waver  from  themes  that  are  graver 

Than  busied  my  idle  young  head. 
Yet  there,  like  a  trio  of  Dryads 

Half  hid  in  a  trellis,  you  smile — 
Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita  — 

With  lips  that  were  made  to  beguile. 

Now,  know  you  not,  truant  Trinita  — 

Soft  sylph  whose  delight  is  to  lave 
Where  the  warm  Caribbean  sings  ever  a  pjean 

Of  praise  as  you  mount  on  the  wave  — 
That  time  has  brought  Marys  and  Sarahs, 

And  many  more  home-like  in  sound 

36 


Than  Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita, 
However  the  liquids  abound? 

And  know  you  not,  cruel  Crucita  — 

Who  quickened  my  heart  to  a  flame, 
Like  some  sulphurous  crater  beneath  the  equator 

In  far  Ecuador,  whence  you  came, 
That  the  years  on  their  wings  have  brought  healing  — 

Spelled  Helen,  perchance,  who  is  fair, 
Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita, 

With  not  a  dark  strand  in  her  hair? 

And  you  so  much  earlier  and  sweeter 

That  your  name  I  enmask  in  my  rhymes; 
You  know  that  love  varies,  though  toward  the  Canaries 

I  once  worshiped,  vespers  and  primes. 
No  more  of  that  wreathing  with  roses 

Those  glossy  black  ringlets,  for  thine, 
(With  those  of  Trinita,  Crucita!), 

Have  sprinkled  the  silver  in  mine. 

Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita  ! 

Even  now  I  grow  weak  in  my  will; 
Were  all  of  you  Circes  whose  kisses  were  curses 

I  know  I  should  welcome  you  still ; 
For  under  those  languorous  lashes, 

And  in  every  dimple's  soft  mold — 
Trinita,  Crucita,  Anita  — 

The  dreams  of  my  youth  I  behold. 


37 


A   Dirge 


OLD,  old,  old  as  the  records  of  birth 

Is  thy  story,  O  Death! 
Cold,  cold,  cold  as  when,  first-born  of  earth, 

Abel  tasted  thy  breath! 
Yet  solace  has  never  a  psalm 
And  Gilead  never  a  balm 

All  thy  sorrows  to  calm. 


Fold,  fold,  fold  o'er  her  tenantless  breast 

Snowy  vestments,  O  Tomb ! 
Tolled,  tolled,  tolled  be  the  bells  for  the  rest 

Of  her  soul  in  its  bloom! 
Lo  !  all  the  processional  years, 
As  they  file  down  the  highway  of  tears, 

Bring  her  voice  to  our  ears. 


Flown,  flown,  flown  on  the  wing  of  the  Spring, 

From  the  portal  of  June! 
Blown,  blown,  blown  ere  the  Summer  could  bring 

The  year's  dial  to  noon! 
And  with  her  a  glory  has  fled 
As  if  the  sear  roses  had  said, 

"  Let  us  die ;  she  is  dead !" 

38 


Moan,  moan,  moan  with  the  Winter's  unrest, 

Wind  of  sea  and  of  shore! 
Lone,  lone,  lone  we  who  loved  her  the  best, 

And  can  now  but  deplore! 
No  lonelier  lieth  she  there 
Where  dust,  fashioned  ever  so  fair, 

Unto  dust  must  repair! 

Old,  old,  old  as  the  records  of  birth 

Is  thy  story,  O  Death! 
Cold,  cold,  cold  as  when,  first-born  of  earth, 

Abel  tasted  thy  breath! 
And  yet  when  the  night-shadows  creep, 
With  a  newness  of  anguish  we  weep 

For  her  spirit  asleep ! 


39 


Val  d'Arno 


As  lake-boats  seek  their  twilight  coves, 

And  flocks  their  fold  at  night, 
I  languish  for  the  grots  and  groves 
Where  still  each  Nymph  and  Naiad  roves 
Who  taught  my  youth  delight. 

How  wild  the  wind-swept  waste  of  furze! 

How  shrill  the  killdee's  call! 
Yet  there  I  know  how  warmly  stirs 
The  breeze  among  the  gossamers 

Which  fleck  the  tufted  wall. 

The  far  peaks  don  their  caps  of  snow 

For  winter's  long  repose, 
But,  browning  on  the  slopes  below, 
The  tangled  olives  nod,  and  glow 

The  crimson  coquelicots. 

Sweet  Arno!    As  the  light  of  shrines 

On  some  lone  wayside  gleams, 
So  from  the  circling  Apennines 
The  memory  of  thy  valley  shines, 
The  beacon  of  my  dreams. 


40 


Venetian  Memories 


(In  a  Volume  of  "Gondola  Days.") 

ONCE  more  I  hear  the  gondolier 

As  through  the  winding  alleys, 
With  speeding  oar  and  warning  clear 

He  lightly  veers  and  sallies ; 
Once  more  the  pigeons  preen  and  coo 

In  sunny  square  and  tower, 
While  far  Friuli,  faintly  blue, 

Sleeps  out  the  sultry  hour. 

The  bright  lagoon  reflects  the  moon 

Where  crimpling  waves  are  breaking; 
Night,  with  the  voice  and  breath  of  June, 

In  joyous  swell  is  waking; 
The  darkened  dials  half  forget  » 

To  sermonize  on  pleasure, 
Where  Time  is  but  a  canzonet, 

And  Life  treads  out  the  measure. 


I  found  her  fair  when  wandering  there, 
But,  summoned  by  these  pages, 

The  Venice  which  with  thee  I  share 
My  deeper  love  engages ; 


'Tis  not  the  spell  of  Doge  and  bride 
With  which  she  now  entrances, 

But  that,  with  soul  to  soul  allied, 
We  trace  her  old  romances. 


The  Scorn  of  the  Sky 


BLEAK,  ah!  bleak  were  the  hill  and  the  heather; 

Cheerless  and  chill  was  the  sky ; 
Wintry  the  hearts  and  wintry  the  weather — 

Fitly  has  fallen  the  die. 

Fair,  ah!  fair  were  the  June  blossoms  blushing; 

Green  grew  the  tall,  tasseled  corn, 
When,  with  thy  soft  cheek  blanching  and  flushing, 

Heart  from  its  twin  heart  was  torn. 

Ne'er,  ah !  ne'er  was  the  sun  such  a  sultan ; 

Ne'er  was  the  earth  such  a  bride ; 
Ne'er  did  the  Naiads  of  blown  blooms  exult  on 

Breast  of  so  bright-brimmed  a  tide. 

Such,  ah !  such  was  the  scene  when  we  severed. 

How,  shall  we  meet,  wondered  I, 
When,  having  vainly  endured  and  endeavored, 

Love  can  not  hope,  can  not  die? 

How,  ah!  how  will  the  skies  bend  above  us? — 

Sun-lit  or  storm-lashed  the  day? 
Warm  as  our  doom-doled  last  kiss  as  lovers? 

Cold  as  the  part  we  must  play? — 

43 


Cold,  ah!  cold,  and  not  solely  in  seeming: 
Drear  are  the  hearts  that  must  wear, 

Like  a  pent  pink  where  glaciers  are  gleaming, 
Love  in  the  thrall  of  despair. 

Now,  ah !  now  we  have  met ;  it  is  over ! 

Both  read  the  scorn  of  the  sky. 
Fast  fell  the  snow  where  once  bloomed  the  clover ; 

Wanly  the  clouds  drifted  by. 

Bleak,  ah!  bleak  were  the  hill  and  the  heather; 

Cheerless  and  chill,  thou  and  I. 
Wintry  the  hearts  and  wintry  the  weather, 

Fitly  has  Fate  cast  the  die. 


44 


Twin  But  Twain 


SHALL  I  be  there, 
Where  bridal  tapers  brightly  flare, 
And  mocking  music  fills  the  air, 
A  cypress  leaf  to  lurk  beneath 
The  whiteness  of  the  orange  wreath? 


Shall  I  stand  by, 

While  life's  last  hope  you  crucify, 
And  teach  my  lips  a  smiling  lie, 
Bleeding,  though  bland,  while  labored  wit 
But  ill  conceals  the  counterfeit? 


Shall  I  whose  eyes, 
Beneath  those  same  resplendent  skies, 
Once  warmed  the  love  you  now  despise, 
Pledge  thee  at  Cana  when  their  brine 
Must  be  the  water  for  my  wine? 

Ah!  no,  not  there, 
For  it  would  seem  to  my  despair 
That  when  they  gem  your  raven  hair 
And  clothe  thee  like  the  saintly  dead, 
A  sadder  ritual  should  be  read. 

45 


And  such  to  me 

That  hour,  indeed,  shall  ever  be, 
Until,  in  sweet  eternity, 
The  souls  which  fate  made  twin  but  twain 
Shall  meet  and  mingle  once  again. 


46 


Afloat 


AH  !  could  we  ever  drift  and  dream 
In  these  cool  coverts  of  repose, 

The  world,  like  yonder  restless  stream 
Which  vainly  sparkles  as  it  flows, 

Would  leave  beneath  thy  sweet  control 

The  calmed  Propontis  of  my  soul. 

Rich  as  the  splendor  of  a  day 

Bequeathed  to  one  memorial  star, 

Soft  as  the  mirrored  lights  which  play 
At  evening  through  each  melting  bar, 

This  silvery  isle  in  wastes  of  green 

Receives  its  long  expected  queen. 

The  listless  prow,  the  idle  oar, 

The  courtly  waves  which  dance  to  thee, 

The  reeds  which  line  the  circling  shore, 
And,  as  the  petals  hide  the  bee, 

Enfold  us  in  their  fond  embrace — 

All  but  reflect  thy  varied  grace. 

But  birds  forget  their  morning  note, 

The  jasmines  shed  their  cups  of  gold  ; 
And,  like  some  gorgeous  cloud  afloat, 

47 


Thou,  too,  wilt  pass  and,  unconsoled, 
Leave  to  the  languor  of  despair 
The  scenes  thy  presence  made  so  fair. 

Still,  if  in  this  enchanted  sphere 
No  longer  we  may  drift  and  dream, 

'Tis  ours  at  least  to  wake  and  steer, 
'Tis  ours  to  leave  the  restless  stream, 

And  twine  from  roses  of  to-day 

A  garland  for  some  happier  May. 


The  Feast  of  Fools 


THIS  is  the  Feast  of  Fools, 

Heart  of  my  heart's  desire; 
Wisdom  abates  her  rules — 

Motley  the  sole  attire; 
Hence  in  my  hardihood  come  I  to  pray, 
Be  mine  to-day. 

Year  round,  my  cap  and  bells 

Nod  in  your  courtly  train, 
While  that  my  soul  rebels 

Under  your  light  disdain ; 
Yet  on  this  Feast  of  Fools  one  dares  to  say, 
Be  mine  to-day. 

Well  may  you  laugh  it  down ; 

Never  such  folly  since 
Titania  clasped  a  clown 

As  her  white  bosom's  prince; — 
Wherefore  this  Feast  of  Fools  bids  you  say,  "Yea, 
"Take  me  to-day." 

Hautboy  and  dulcimer 
Strike  up  a  frolic  air; 
Ermine  and  miniver 

49 


Join  in  the  merry  fair; 

This  is  the  Feast  of  Fools ; — therefore  you  may 
Be  mine  to-day. 

Sages  in  sober  gray 

Teach  us  to  borrow 
Prudence  from  yesterday 

Against  to-morrow. 

Folly  shall  flout  the  schools ;  shame  on  delay ! 
Be  mine  to-day. 


The  Nun 


'Tis  not  for  you,  my  lady  fair, 

To  fold  your  dimpled  hands, 
To  darker  hood  your  raven  hair, 
And  on  5^our  lily  brow  to  wear 

The  Sister's  whiter  bands. 

The  eyes  which  mock  those  cloister  cloths 

And  glitter  through  the  gloom 
Too  brightly  tempt  us  mortal  moths 
For  one  whose  virgin  soul  betroths 
The  convent  for  a  groom. 

Let  those  retire  who  quit  mankind 

To  measure  scorn  for  scorn  ; 
The  weak  of  heart  or  strong  of  mind, 
Who  there  may  take  their  wounds  to  bind, 

Or  guard  against  the  thorn. 

But  you? — ah!  no,  my  lady  fair, 
The  Maker's  marks  are  plain; 
Such  charms  could  never  bring  despair, 
The  crimson  currents  coursing  there 
Are  not  for  cold  disdain. 

51 


But  if  you  needs  must  take  the  veil, 

And  henceforth  dwell  apart, 
Come  where  the  Credo  and  the  Hail 
Are  loyal  love's  own  tender  tale, 
And  cloister  in  my  heart. 


"Thou  Shalt  Not  Walk  Alone' 


THOU  shalt  not  walk  alone! 
The  shadows  gather  and  the  weird  winds  moan, 
The  ghoul,  Grief,  grinneth  on  the  graven  stone; 
Wild  is  the  way,  but  lone  it  shall  not  be 
If  I  may  share  thy  pilgrimage  with  thee. 

As  from  a  mystic  scroll 
Which  love  and  sympathy  alone  unroll, 
I  read  the  secrets  of  thy  sorrowing  soul, 
And  with  responsive  sorrow  take  thy  hand 
To  lead  thee  o'er  the  baleful  borderland. 

I  know  the  torturer's  tongue 
In  spiteful  rage  has  racked  thee,  and  has  wrung 
The  blood  of  suffering  from  the  heart  which  stung 
Presumption  with  defiance,  yet  the  scar 
Will  but  attest  how  firm  thy  virtues  are. 


Be  cheered,  if  I  may  cheer, 
For  thou,  the  dearest,  shalt  be  doubly  dear; 
World-wounded  spirit,  make  thy  haven  here. 
Deep  as  the  love  thou  wakenest  in  my  breast 
Shall  be  my  rapture  and  thy  perfect  rest. 

53 


A  Woeful  Ballad  of  After  Days 

WELL,  I  find  you  fair  as  ever, 

Golden  Hair, 
And,  despite  my  best  endeavor 

To  beware, 

Comes  a  soft  and  subtle  feeling 
Of — you  know — all  through  me  stealing, 
As  in  days  when  I  was  kneeling 

At — your  chair. 

Time  has  touched  you  rather  lightly, 

It  appears ; 
(Little  wonder  that  so  knightly 

Passed  the  years!) 
Though  the  pink  Cordelian  jewel 
Bears  a  witness  somewhat  cruel 
That  the  end  of  bib  and  gruel 

Swiftly  nears. 

Turn  the  light  a  little  higher, 

If  you  please; 
Is  that  matronly  attire 

Meant  to  tease? 

With  your  curls  in  sober  braiding, 
Aren't  you  merely  masquerading, 

54 


The  illusion  deftly  aiding 
With  your  keys? 

No?    Ah,  well!     I  will  remember— 

If  I  must; 
Though  'tis  hard  to  see  the  ember 

Turn  to  dust — 
Hard  to  see  you  standing  by  me 
While  familiar  lips  deny  me, 
And  your  very  eyes  defy  me — 

With  their  trust. 

Still,  we  showed  the  sun  a  warmer 

Zodiac, 
Should  he  wish  to  quit  his  former 

Beaten  track; 

My  remembrance  of  the  bliss  is, 
Those  were  not  the  frigid  kisses 
Of  the  water  colored  misses 

On  a  plaque. 

Why,  we  taught  Dan  Cupid  fashions 

In  his  trade; 
And  we  showed  him  finer  passions, 

Ready  made. 

So  you  can  not  greatly  blame  me 
That  the  old  emotions  claim  me, 
When  the  charms  that  overcame  me 

Will  not  fade. 


Yet  it's  idle  to  invoke  the 
Youth  we  praise; 


55 


It  has  vanished — with  the  polk,  the 

Polonaise ! 

I  will  pitch  a  tent  in  Edom, 
Take  your  letters  out  and  read  'em — 
And  reflect  how  sweet  is  freedom, 

All  my  days. 


Our  Ways 


THOUGH  my  way  lead  through  the  lone  wood, 
And  thy  way  lead  o'er  the  hills, 

I  feel  and  I  swear 

That  we  both  but  fare 
To  the  tryst  which  a  long  love  wills. 

For  after  the  gloom  of  the  forest, 
And  after  the  gleam  on  the  crest, 

It  can  not  but  be 

That  for  thee  and  for  me 
Comes  the  land  which  we  both  love  best. 

I  strive  not  to  reason  or  reckon — 
To  parallel  paths  that  divide, 

But,  threading  the  maze 

Of  the  tortuous  ways, 
We  shall  yet  journey  side  by  side. 

"Good  night,"  let  it  be,  till  "Good  morrow:" 
In  love  and  in  faith  I  shall  wait. 

The  veil  on  thy  brow 

And  the  syllabled  vow 
Can  not  alter  the  purpose  of  Fate. 


57 


Undertones 


How  strange,  how  strange  that  you,  the  tender-hearted, 

Should  teach  me  scorn  of  very  tenderness, 
And  send  the  soul  which  loved  you,  stunned  and  thwarted, 
Back  where  the  worldings  press! 

What  is  the  vaunted  comradeship  of  feeling, 

And  what  the  sweet  community  of  mind, 
Since  you,  being  you,  to  all  my  warm  appealing, 
No  answering  thrill  can  find? 

In  the  calm  night,  when  silence  was  unbroken, 

Save  by  the  influent  voices  of  the  spheres, 
Have  we  not  caught  them,  and,  with  thoughts  unspoken, 
Shared  them  through  spirit  ears? 

All  august  mysteries  of  life  eternal — 

The  muffled  thunder  of  a  falling  leaf, 
The  star-light  flashes  from  the  gates  supernal, 
With  heaven  in  faint  relief — 

Have  we  not  listened  through  the  quiet  hours, 

With  hearts  accordant  to  each  undertone, 
And  marked  with  mutual  eyes  the  symboled  powers 
Revealed  to  us  alone? 

58 


And  is  there  no  endearment  left  to  bind  us? 

Must  I  in  you,  as  in  the  leaf  and  star, 
But  glimpse  a  heaven,  sent  only  to  remind  us 
That  heaven  is  yet  afar? 

No  more  calm  nights,  no  more  of  feelings  tender, 

Since  heaven  is  far  and  tenderness  is  pain; 
What  unto  me  is  rendered  let  me  render, 
And  seek  the  world  again. 


59 


Measures 


MUST  I  at  last  in  slow,  grave  measure  greet  thee? 

In  low,  calm  cadences,  with  dying  fall, 
'Round  whom  the  rippling  lyrics,  fain  to  meet  thee, 
So  loved  to  break  and  brawl? 

Must  we  who  walked  such  sunny  ways  together — 
Shared  the  soul-whispers  of  the  lake  and  wood, 
Set  separate  paths  across  a  rain-drenched  heather, 
And  dare  an  unknown  flood? 

Time  is  not  change;  ah!  Time  is  but  a  garden 

Where  neighboring  buds  are  nearest  when  they  blow — 
Where  tender  tendrils  which  the  seasons  harden, 
Cling  closer  as  they  grow. 

* 
Space  is  not  distance;  giving  thought  for  thought,  Love, 

In  the  tense  hushes,  under  sun  and  star, 
A  code  and  cable  we  have  slowly  wrought,  Love, 
Which  makes  no  near  and  far. 

So  if  in  slow,  grave  measures  I  must  greet  thee, 

Then  in  diminuendos  of  despair 
Expires  the  fairest  hope  which  rose  to  meet  me 
When  life  was  very  fair. 

60 


"When  I  Kissed  Your  Tears  Away' 

NIGHT,  but  silver-veiled  the  valley; 

Night,  but  splendor  on  the  hill; 
While  below  us  musically 

Broke  the  ripples  of  the  rill. 
Witching  nature's  soft  beguiling 

Made  the  night  a  mellow  day; — 
All  the  world,  beside,  was  smiling 

When  I  kissed  your  tears  away. 

Heart  to  heart,  in  tumult  beating, 

Told  their  parting  tale  too  well, 
Like  some  wind-swept  strings  repeating 

Dirges  for  their  shattered  shell. 
Love  bemoaned  its  ill-starred  capture, 

And  the  lips  which  must  unsay, 
Trembled  with  a  bitter  rapture 

When  I  kissed  your  tears  away. 

Love-locked  arms,  with  frenzied  passion, 

Strained  farewell,  yet  yearned  to  stay; 
Over  twinned  cheeks,  anguish  ashen, 

Pitying  ringlets  stole  astray. 
Eyes,  like  misty  temple  tapers, 

When  the  incense  clouds  their  ray, 

61 


Shone  through  sighs  whose  melting  vapors, 
Turned  to  tears,  I  kissed  away. 

Hoodwinked  hope,  poor  fettered  falcon! 

Fretted  for  that  genial  sky 
Where  no  Alps  nor  borean  Balkan 

Breathed  their  chilling  influence  nigh. 
Or,  with  yet  a  manlier  daring, 

Longed  this  anxious  heart  to  say, 
"Storms  may  come,  but,  undespairing, 

Love  shall  kiss  your  tears  away." 

But  alas!  for  fate  and  feeling, 

And  alas !  for  those  who  part : 
Time  can  bring  no  power  of  healing, 

Absence  no  remedial  art. 
Yet  awhile  the  husk  and  lentil 

And  the  exile's  sunless  day, 
Until,  lily-lipped,  but  gentle, 

Death  shall  kiss  our  tears  away. 


62 


Love's  Afterwhile 


I  MAY  not  rule  the  despot  stars 

Which  pigmy  every  towering  hope, 

Nor  scorn  the  tyrant  fate  which  bars 
My  soul  within  its  narrow  scope, 

But  o'er  life's  troubled  Galilee 

I  still  may  steer  to  peace  and  thee. 

I  may  not  strike  the  minstrel  strings 

Which  echo  into  far  renown, 
Nor  find  the  feigned  Bahaman  springs 

Through  guardian  verdure  gurgling  down; 
But  wherefore  music  when  you  speak? 
What  spring  beyond  your  eyes  to  seek? 

And  here  my  ranging  heart  shall  rear 

Its  utmost  pillars  of  desire : 
Unreasoning  pride  and  brooding  fear 

Are  lost  in  love's  refining  fire; 
And  if  their  sweetness  now  be  o'er, 
Life's  misstrung  chords  shall  jar  no  more. 

Through  all  those  drear,  distracting  hours, 
My  Memnon  heart  still  turned  to  thee ; 

63 


And  there,  though  night  still  darkly  lowers, 

Its  orient  gaze  shall  ever  be, 
Until,  in  love's  sweet  afterwhile, 
Its  voice  shall  greet  thy  morning  smile. 


64 


Her  Heart 


TAKE  away  the  flowing  flagons 

That  exhilarate  no  more; 
For  within  her  fervent  eyes 
All  the  summer  sunlight  lies 

That  the  garnered  grape  could  store. 

Take  away  the  lute,  the  laughter 

That  once  made  the  heart  rejoice; 
For,  like  streams  upon  the  pebbles, 
Breaking  into  trembling  trebles, 
Is  the  music  of  her  voice. 


Take  away  the  richest  roses 

That  the  gardens  ever  grew; 
For  her  coyly  curling  lips 
Too  transcendently  eclipse 

All  their  grace  of  curve  and  hue. 

Take  away  the  gleams  of  glory, 

Whose  allurements  but  impart 
Gloom  to  this  despairing  spirit 
Which  would  sooner,  far,  inherit 
Her  sweet,  sympathetic  heart. 

65 


Entombed 


As  the  great  who,  dying  glorious, 

In  their  temple-tombs  repose, 
And,  with  death  in  vain  victorious, 
Sleep  where  master  hands,  laborious, 
Have  created  marble  woes ; — 

Sleep  where  softened  sunbeams  dally 
Down  the  tessellated  aisles: 

Where  the  mass  as  musically 

Floats  as  streams  down  Tempe's  valley, 
And  all  blended  beauty  smiles; 

So  with  her,  in  whom  designing 

Nature  built  its  noblest  shrine — 
Hair  of  gold's  severest  fining, 
Eyes  of  light's  most  lucent  shining, 
Form  most  fashioned  for  divine, — 

There  the  heart,  intense  and  tender, 

Doomed  to  perish  through  its  pride, 
Sepultured  amidst  the  splendor 
Which  united  graces  lend  her, 
Rests  with  her  for  whom  it  died. 

66 


After  the  Strife 


HAVE  I  not  fought  at  Ephesus? 

What  did  the  Tarsan  know 
Of  passions  wilder  than  the  beasts 

He  strove  with  long  ago? 

Some  I  have  slain  in  manly  wise, 
And  some  but  wounded  were, 

And  one  remains,  with  cougar  strength 
Behind  the  cougar's  purr. 

This  master  passion  holds  at  bay 
What  power  of  will  there  be, 

For  love  is  love  through  all  estates, 
And  mine  still  turns  to  thee. 

Go  bid  the  lustre  of  thine  eyes 

Retire  in  cold  eclipse ; 
Go  bid  the  wasting  years  efface 

The  crimson  from  thy  lips. 

They  work  the  old  familiar  spell, 
And  feed  the  lingering  flames 

Which  now  have  burned  too  long  to  yield 
To  jugglery  of  names. 

67 


Can  he  who  loved  the  perfect  bud 

Forget  the  perfect  rose, 
Because,  perchance,  some  later  stalk 

Beside  its  beauty  grows? 

I,  too,  have  fought  at  Ephesus, 
But  what  availed  the  sword? 

To  one  imperious  power  I  yield, 
And  own  that  Love  is  lord. 


68 


A  Song  and  A  Sigh 

THE  course  of  my  love  is  a  song  and  a  sigh; 

In  the  bi-seasoned  year  of  my  heart, 
The  holly  scarce  waits  for  the  crocus  to  die, 

And  the  kiss  fades  away  with  a  smart. 

The  course  of  my  love  is  a  song  and  a  sigh: 
The  blight  soon  succeeds  to  the  bloom; 

The  lips  that  are  rosiest,  readiest  lie, 
And  the  glow  is  a  promise  of  gloom. 

I  have  loved  her — ah,  well !  — but  be  tranquil ;  'tis  I : 
My  lute,  when  its  strings  are  unstrung, 

Must  hang  where  the  breezes  that  softly  breathe  by 
Make  the  same  chords  to  sigh  that  have  sung. 


69 


La  Belle  Concierge 


SHE  lived  by  glassy  Leman, 

Where  Chillon's  gables  rise, 
And  all  the  stars  in  lake  and  sky 

Were  dim  beside  her  eyes. 
Her  dark  hair  bound  my  heart  in — 

Her  brown  hand  took  my  fees; 
But  welcome,  jaunty  janitress, 

Who  kept  the  castle  keys! 

The  snowy  Alpine  mountains 

Breathed  health  upon  her  cheek, 
While  in  her  voice  the  far-off  note 

Of  yodels  seemed  to  speak ; 
And  when  the  storied  vaults  there 

Made  all  my  blood  to  freeze, 
She  warmed  it  back — the    Switzer  maid 

Who  kept  the  castle  keys. 

Her  form  was  young  and  slender; 

How  could  it  be  so  hard 
To  loose  the  chain  which  held  me  there 

As  fast  as  Bonnivard? 
Were  there  not  gaily  gowned  belles 

Among  the  Genevese 

70 


Whose  hands  were  softer  than  the  hands 
That  kept  the  castle  keys? 

As  o'er  those  haunted  chambers 

Her  gracious  look  she  cast, 
She  seemed  like  Chillon's  chatelaine 

Returning  from  the  past; 
And  yet  I  know  that  proud  dame 

Had  not  the  power  to  please 
Like  that  arch  child  who  filled  her  place, 

And  kept  the  castle  keys. 

I  wonder  if  the  roses 

Still  clamber  on  the  wall! — 
I  know  a  faded  rose  that  rests 

In  more  than  jealous  thrall. 
She  tip-toed,  for  the  best  bud, 

Of  course,  was  hard  to  seize — 
Thought  she  that  in  some  after  year 

I'd  need  her  castle  keys? 

Ah,  well,  for  glassy  Leman, 

And  Chillon's  gabled  pile! 
Perhaps  no  witching  warder  lights 

Those  donjons  with  a  smile; 
But  you,  my  kerchiefed  Switzer, 

In  lands  beyond  the  seas, 
Have  locked  your  image  in  my  heart — 

And  thrown  away  the  keys! 


"Make  Her  Thus  Fair' 


SOFTLY  insidious, 

Grecian  in  grace, 
Such  as  skilled  Phidias 
Wrought  the  fastidious — 

Such  is  her  face. 

Filmy  habiliments 

Priestesses  wear, 
Fine  in  its  filaments, 
Dark  as  mad  elements — 

Such  is  her  hair. 

Light  semi-quavers, 

Organs'  deep  roll, 
Blent  to  enslave  us — 
Where  none  can  save  us — 

Such  is  her  soul. 

Nature,  thy  master-mold 

This  is,  I  swear; 
And  when  at  last  I  hold 
Love  in  a  faster  fold, 

Make  her  thus  fair. 

72 


"String  Me  the  Strands' 


STRING  me  the  strands  of  her  soft,  hazel  hair, 
Tuned  to  the  key  of  her  laughter; 

Give  me  some  fairy-like,  Ariel  air 
For  the  light  breezes  to  waft  her. 

Rhyme  is  too  rude  for  such  graces  as  her's, 
Rhythm  too  strained  for  her  freedom — 

She  the  exquisite  whose  light  treading  stirs 
Flowers  in  life's  herbless  Edom. 

Spread  like  the  after-glow  chromes  of  the  skies, 
Give  me  her  childish  cheek's  blushes, 

Mixed  with  the  tints  of  her  autumn  brown  eyes, 
With  her  arched  brows  for  my  brushes. 

She  is  too  artless  for  art  to  portray  ; 

Gems  with  their  own  dust  are  burnished; 
Umber  and  ochre  her  charms  to  display 

From  her  own  charms  must  be  furnished. 

Then  I  shall  ask  not  the  sketchman  his  skill, 

Fret  not  with  lords  of  the  lyre ; 
One  nectared  kiss  which  her  child  lips  distill 

Genius  enough  will  inspire. 

73 


Carpe  Diem 


SAID  the  butter-cup  bud  to  the  swallow, 
"Why  should  I  my  petals  unfold — 
My  delicate  petals  of  gold? 
For  the  blight  of  the  winter  must  follow, 
And,  strewn  down  the  desolate  hollow, 
My  beauty  must  wither  and  mold !" 

And  the  rollicking  swallow,  replying, 
As  sunward  he  circled  to  fling 
The  light  from  his  rapturous  wing, 
Twittered,  "What  though  a  thousand  are  lying 
\Vhere  this  happy  year  must  be  dying, 
To-day,  O  to-day,  Love,  is  Spring!" 

Though  the  years  are  grief-laden  behind  us, 

And,  like  a  dark  caravan,  nears 

The  file  of  unpromising  years, 
Let  us  twine  from  the  roses  assigned  us 
In  respite,  a  garland  to  bind  us 

With  strength  for  the  season  of  tears. 

You  have  flouted  the  dreamy  seclusion — 
The  uplands  made  sweet  with  the  corn, 
And  meadows  all  dewy  at  morn, 

74 


Where  our  love  was  so  free  from  intrusion; 
And,  caught  in  the  world's  quick  confusion, 
You  shine,  still  a  queen,  but  forlorn. 

And  you  know  now  the  tender  compassion 
With  which  every  elfin-eyed  bower 
In  tremulous  woe  watched  the  hour 
When,  obedient  to  fortune  and  fashion, 
Your  soul  should  be  fed  with  a  ration, 
And  starved  for  the  breath  of  a  flower! 

But  around  us  again  are  the  roses, 
As  rich  as  the  memories  they  bring; 
(Ah,  how  their  ripe  petal-mouths  cling!) 

Come!  the  vesper-dim  trellis  encloses; 

To-morrow  as  fortune  disposes! 
To-day,  O,  to-day,  Love,  is  Spring! 


75 


"We  Love  Again' 


I  HAVE  wooed  in  solemn-wise, 
I  have  wooed  in  song; 

I  have  wooed,  in  every  mood, 
Full  half  a  year  too  long. 

I  have  won — not  even  a  smile, 
Softened  from  disdain! — 

Loved,  to  learn  alone  to  burn 
Through  passion  into  pain. 

I  can  now  take  leave  of  thee, 
Barren,  yes,  but  blest ; 

Not  till  spent  do  souls  consent 
To  quit  their  rainbow  quest. 

I,  indeed,  have  vainly  loved, 
Yet  not  loved  in  vain; 

Balked  desires  but  feed  the  fires 
With  which  we  love  again. 


76 


Love  At  Noon 


THOUGH  they  wrote  it  in  their  blazonry 

In  knightly  days  of  yore, 
Though  they  wove  it  in  the  texture 
Of  the  gaudy  scarfs  they  wore, 
Loving  you,  I  am  persuaded 
That  they  merely  masqueraded, 
And  that  mortals  never  really  loved  before. 


Though  the  sombre  boughs  have  blossomed, 

And  the  lark,  on  lighter  wing, 
Has  exulted  in  the  glory 

Which  successive  Aprils  bring, 
Since  all  days  alike  were  gloomy 
Till  at  last  they  brought  you  to  me, 
Surely  this  alone  can  boast  the  charm  of  Spring. 


Let  me  own  that  phantom  fancies 
May  have  held  a  fleeting  sway, 
Still  the  pallor  of  the  morning 
Only  heralded  the  day 

When  affection,  warm  and  tender, 
Came  with  full  meridian  splendor, 
And  your  radiance  chased  the  shadowy  doubts  away. 

77 


Now  with  new  and  richer  rapture 
All  my  quickened  being  thrills; 
Comes  a  purpose  such  as  beauty 
Like  thine  own  alone  instills; 
Backward  swing  inviting  portals 
Whence,  like  music  of  immortals, 
Swells  a  prelude  which  your  presence  but  fulfills. 

Shall  I  come  into  the  kingdom, 

After  all  this  weary  way? 
Have  the  seasons  made  December 
But  a  rugged  guide  to  May? 

No?     Then  here's  a  smile  for  sorrow! 
Yes?     Then  never  merrier  morrow 
Was  so  sweetened  with  the  chastening  of  delay. 


"Therefore  I  Call  You  Mine' 


WHY  should  I  call  you  fair? 
The  shy  leaves  lisp  it  to  the  listening  air, 
The  wide  world  spells  it  in  your  waving  hair, 
The  kindred  Graces  greet  you  everywhere; 
What  folly  to  define  the  charms  you  wear! 

Why  should  I  call  you  fair? 

Why  should  I  call  you  kind  ? 
To  every  fault  are  you  not  sweetly  blind? 
Have  you  not  met  me  with  a  soul  inclined 
To  share  the  deep  community  of  mind, 
Where  Psyche  can  alone  her  Eros  find? 

Why  should  I  call  you  kind  ? 

Why  should  I  call  you  wise? 
Can  all  the  schools  teach  wisdom  like  your  eyes? 
Have  all  the  sophists  such  a  creed  as  lies 
In  the  calm  depths  where  softly  fall  and  rise 
The  wavering  feelings  I  so  dearly  prize? 

Why  should  I  call  you  wise? 

Why  should  I  call  you  mine? 
Why  should  the  tendrils  of  our  hearts  entwine? 

79 


Because  I  knew  you  as  a  soul  divine, 
Such  as  no  mortal  tenements  confine, 
When  I  and  all  the  world's  first  joy  were  thine: 
Therefore  I  call  you  mine! 


80 


The  Charm  Eternal 


FULL  well  I  loved  the  ripened  lips, 
And  quickened  with  a  winy  glow 

To  fold  thy  pulsing  finger-tips, 

And  watch  thy  blushes  come  and  go, 
Thy  near,  sweet  breath,  in  laughter  low, 

Exhaling  myrrh  and  honey-drips. 

Even  now  the  rumor  that  thy  soul 
Its  happy  haven  finds  at  last 

Revives  those  Lydian  gales  that  stole 
Across  the  desert  of  the  past, 
And  3^et  no  lingering  look  I  cast, 

As  one  who  missed  and  mourns  his  goal. 

I  find  thee  in  the  Autumn  field, 

Entangled  with  the  garnered  grain; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  warblers  yield 

Their  hearts  to  some  remembered  strain; 
In  hedges  fragrant  of  the  rain 

Thy  wispy  presence  is  revealed. 

This  dear  pervasion  of  thy  charms 

With  an  immortal  youth  is  dowered; 
How  quickly,  in  enfolding  arms, 

81 


Thy  mortal  bloom  had  been  deflowered! 
Now  all  thy  years  are  rosy-houred, 
And  death  has  lost  its  old  alarms. 


82 


The  Autumn  Gale 


UP  here  where  the  glaciers  glint  and  glare, 

And  the  Borean  blast  bestirs — 
Beyond  the  line  where  the  hemlocks  strive 

In  hardihood  with  the  firs; 
Where  the  snow-peaks  steal  toward  the  bleak,  gray  skies, 

And  the  lingering  twilights  fail, 
I  gather  my  strength  for  the  first  fell  swoop — 

In  the  wrath  of  the  Autumn  gale. 

The  ermine  stores  his  last  scant  food, 

And  the  white  bear  grows  more  bold; 
The  foot  of  man  long  since  has  fled 

From  the  drowsy  stealth  of  the  cold  ; 
So  here  in  the  caves  I  hide  my  steeds 

And  husband  flail  on  flail, 
For  the  day  when  my  cavalcade  shall  ride 

On  the  wings  of  the  Autumn  gale. 

The  aurora  paints  on  the  spaceless  vault, 

With  her  vast  and  dazzling  light, 
The  varying  rainbow  dyes  which  cheer 

My  world  through  the  half  year's  night; 
And  under  her  beams  I  dance  with  glee 

At  thought  of  the  woe  and  wail 

83 


When  I  come  with  the  might  of  a  thousand  gods 
In  the  van  of  the  Autumn  gale. 

The  stallions  stamp  in  their  stalls  of  snow 

And  toss  their  milk-white  manes, 
And  the  gods  I  rule  even  now  rebel 

That  I  still  withhold  the  reins; 
But  the  day  draws  near  when  the  drills  shall  cease 

And  the  gods  don  icy  mail — 
When,  off  at  the  bugle-note  of  the  blast, 

Shall  come  the  Autumn  gale. 

And  the  puny  roofs  of  the  temperate  zone 

Shall  crush  like  a  plover's  shell; 
The  oaks  shall  break  at  my  finger's  touch — 

The  seas  grow  a  churning  hell; 
For  this  is  the  sport  of  the  great  north  gods, 

Who  even  in  sport  prevail ; 
A  day  for  the  pranks  of  our  frozen  home, 

Then  off  with  the  Autumn  gale! 


On  Nebo 


WERE  there  no  dawn, 
When  shadows  flee,  and  waking  birds  are  glad, — 

When  all  the  curtains  of  the  east,  withdrawn, 
But  mock  the  heart,  which  then  grows  doubly  sad, 
Perhaps — perhaps,  regret  might  slumber  on. 

Ah,  would  there  were  no  dawn ! 

Were  there  no  noon, 
When  sunny  Nature  drains  the  cup  of  dreams, 

And  dove-cotes  murmur  where  the  pigeons  croon, 
Till  mid-day  melts  love's  fast-imprisoned  streams, 
A  cold  content  might  bring  its  tardy  boon. 

Ah,  would  there  were  no  noon ! 

Were  there  no  night, 
When  fire-side  faces  share  the  welcome  glow, 

And  twining  fingers  throb  with  warm  delight, 
Till  drowsy  crickets  say  the  lights  are  low, 

This  lone,  lone  hearth  might  seem  less  vainly  bright. 
Ah,  would  there  were  no  night! 

Dawn,  noon  and  night, 

Heart  of  my  heart!  through  all  the  days  and  years 
Those  childhood  charms  still  haunt  my  aching  sight, 

85 


Which  now  sees  clearly,  though  alas !  through  tears, 
Since  I  must  rest  on  Nebo's  cheerless  height. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  good-night! 


86 


In  Tenebris 


HE  who  watched  thee  with  love,  when  the  days  were  unclouded, 
And  the  clustering  lilacs  laughed  welcome  to  Spring, 

Turns,  faithful — aye,  fondlier,  when  life  is  enshrouded, 
And  sends  thee  a  throb  from  his  heart's  every  string. 

Ah,  well  do  I  know  that  the  after-emotions 

Are  wild  as  the  Pale  Horse  that  paused  at  the  door! 

But  the  voice  that  stilled  Galilee's  restless  commotions 
Can  calm  the  sad  hearts  that  are  made  to  deplore. 

Feel  yet,  if  you  can,  in  the  soul's  dark  Decembers, 
That  one,  oft  beside  you,  walks  still  at  your  side — 

That  when  the  soft  shadow-shapes  creep  o'er  the  embers 
In  spirit,  once  more  at  the  hearth  I  abide. 

How  poor  is  the  pen  when  it  thus  seeks  to  soften 
The  woe  in  the  wake  where  the  Reaper  went  by! 

And  yet  the  storm  never  swept  o'er  us  so  often 
But  what  we  were  glad  at  the  thought  of  the  sky. 

Though  mine  be  a  sorrow,  alas!  beyond  curing — 
The  pain  of  a  parting  where  Hope  had  to  die — 

I  pray  that  thine  own  may  be  made  unenduring 

By  the  wine  and  the  oil  that  are  poured  from  on  high. 

87 


The  Groom's  Toast 


THIS  is  a  briny  breath  of  days 
Whose  sea-born  song  is  sung ; 
A  wind-fall  from  the  fragrant  ways 
Where  rollic  roses  sprung — 
Where  opiate  bees 
And  lyric  leas 
Gave  every  joy  a  tongue. 


This  is  a  crocus  of  the  spring, 
Whose  odor  could  but  die; 
A  pinion  moulted  from  the  wing 
Which  flecks  our  careless  sky — 
A  vagrant  dream 
To  fit  their  theme 
Who  preach  and  prophesy. 

Yet  tenderer  tendrils  now  entwine; 

The  lily  shames  the  rose  ; 
Beyond  the  wayward  eglantine 
The  sturdy  ilex  grows; 
The  cooler  wine 
Which  snows  refine 
Still  sparkles  as  it  flows. 


So  let  this  be  a  briny  breath 

From  seas  we  yet  shall  sail; 
This  wind-fall  fragrance  whispereth 
Of  yet  a  spicier  gale ; 
More  sweetly  still 
The  daffodil 
Shall  deck  the  calmer  vale. 


89 


Christopher  Marlowe 

POOR  Kit!    Have  these  mad  masquers  quite  forgot 
The  dark  alembic  of  thy  mighty  mind, 
Wherein  our  mimic  world  was  first  refined, 

And  fused  to  shapes  as  tragic  as  thy  lot? 

Evangel,  crying  in  the  wilderness, 

Whose  coming  made  the  way  of  Shakespeare  straight, 
Not  even  the  master's  self,  serenely  great, 

Can  make  the  splendor  of  thy  genius  less. 

How  like  thee  are  the  children  of  thy  brain! — 
Timour,  the  lame,  and  Faustus,  sold  to  sin ; 

Yet,  thinking  on  the  young  creator,  slain — 
Thy  journey  ended  at  a  wayside  inn, 

We  mourn  and  bless  thee  who,  at  life's  high  noon, 

Lay  dead  at  Deptford  on  a  night  in  June. 


90 


Resurrection 


THAT  power  which  on  the  moss-grown  trunk 

Brings  beauty  from  decay, 
And,  when  the  evening  sun  hath  sunk, 

Adorns  the  dying  day ; 

That  God  who  animates  the  dust 

And  resurrects  the  rose, 
Will  surely  recompense  my  trust — 

Immortalize  my  woes. 

Then  shudder  not,  O  soul  of  mine ! 

To  peer  into  the  gloom, 
Since  knowledge  of  that  truth  divine 

Illuminates  the  tomb. 


Towards  Sodom 


You  point  me  to  her  pallid  cheek, 
The  step  which  once  was  stronger, 

The  eyes  which  now  but  feebly  speak ; 
Then  bid  me  love  no  longer. 

I  know  she  lacks  the  rounded  grace 
With  which  she  once  was  dowered, 

More  wan  for  each  poor  lingering  trace 
Which  care  has  not  deflowered. 

I  know  she  brewed  the  poisonous  draught 
With  which  she  now  is  wasted, 

And  might  have  thriven  had  she  quaffed 
The  cup  returned  untasted. 

But  ah!  how  dear  those  former  scenes; 

As  their  lost  light  I  weep  her ; 
So  marvel  not  that  Memory  gleans 

Where  Love  has  been  the  reaper. 

Though  fate  has  left  its  withering  track, 
Though  still  the  tempest  lowers, 

The  exiled  heart  turns  fondly  back 
Towards  Sodom's  blackened  towers. 

92 


"Twixt  Longing  and  Alarm' 


THE  light-lipped  waves,  with  shy  desire, 

A  moment  dare  to  kiss  thees 
And  then  with  timorous  haste  retire, 

For  fear  that  it  amiss  be, 
Until,  'twixt  longing  and  alarm, 
Their  breast  is  tortured  into  calm. 

Could  I  but  make  their  fate  my  own, 
The  feelings  which  involve  me 

Might  well  and  willingly  atone, 
Or  conscience  quite  absolve  me, 

And  though  the  conflict  mortal  be, 

How  sweet  to  perish  thus  for  thee! 


93 


The  Alps 


AT  last,  as  when  some  self-deluded  seer 
Half-credits  his  own  prophecies  and  waits 

Fulfillment's  ripening  hour  with  hope  and  fear, 
I  come  to  greet  the  mountains  at  whose  gates, 

Sealed  since  creation's  immemorial  year, 

The  Carthagenian  laughed,  and  at  the  dates 

Of  their  own  dateless  ages,  pensive,  gaze, 

And  guess  the  record  of  departed  days. 

Towering  like  Time  into  the  spacious  breast 
Of  that  Eternity  whose  type  ye  are, 

Can  we  behold  thee  and  yet  not  attest, 
Howe'er  inclined  we  be  with  faith  to  war, 

That  He  whose  plastic  hand  can  thus  invest 
Thee  with  a  might  and  majesty  so  far 

Beyond  us,  must,  in  his  essentials,  be 

All  grace  and  grandeur's  full  epitome? 

What  mortal  pigmy  from  thy  vasty  base 
Can  gaze  at  thine  embattled  brows  and  say 

That  he,  poor  pimple  on  Creation's  face, 
Can  reason  a  creative  God  away? 

Who  can  behold  thee  in  the  soft  embrace 
Of  mother-clouds,  whose  bosom,  day  by  day, 

94 


Nurses  thee  into  fruitage,  and  deny 

To  man  a  fostering  influence  from  on  high  ? 

The  avalanche  is  but  thy  sportive  jest; 

The  lightnings  are  the  twinklings  of  thine  eye; 
Unmarked  the  boulder  thunders  from  thy  crest, 

And  unregarded  sweeps  the  tempest  by; 
Vain  man  can  mine  but  can  not  mar  thy  breast; 

The  cataracts  are  thy  tears,  their  roar  thy  sigh; 
Ye  are  the  peaks,  untrammelled  and  untrod; 
Ye  are  the  mountain  master-works  of  God! 


95 


"Rest  Here,  My  Pilgrim  Heart' 


UNCINCTURED  and  unsandaled, 
Rest  here,  my  pilgrim  heart. 
The  mocking  mirage  and  the  blast 
Of  desert  wastes  are  gone  at  last; 
Come,  tent  thee  where  thou  art. 

Ambition  here  may  gather 

New  courage  for  its  flight, 
Or  failure  find  within  her  eyes 
A  comfort  dearer  than  the  prize, 
And  put  the  world  in  spite. 

Life  now  beholds  its  purpose, 
And  Hope's  directing  star, 
In  mists  so  long  and  deeply  veiled, 
While  tempests  of  unrest  assailed, 
Gleams  clearly,  though  afar. 

More  fluent  lips  may  number 

The  beadroll  of  her  charms: 
I  falter,  and  can  only  kneel, 
Attesting  mutely  what  I  feel, 
Where  silence  pleads  in  psalms. 

96 


Unfettered  and  unfollowed, 

Nest  here,  wing-weary  heart: 
Above  the  flippant  shafts  of  men, 
Beyond  the  range  of  grosser  ken, 
'Tis  sweet  to  dwell  apart. 


97 


Margery  Blair 


RADIANT  Margery  Blair! 

What  a  witchery  dwells  in  thy  soft,  golden  hair, 
Where  the  sunlight  is  caught  in  its  willingest  snare; 
And  the  glory  which  glows  from  thy  smile  and  thine  eye 
Has  concentered  to  crown,  where  unable  to  fly ! 

Winning  Margery  Blair! 

When  was  mind  so  seductive  or  beauty  so  rare? 
When  was  heart  so  congenial  or  sweet  face  so  fair? 
Have  the  angels  which  graced  thee  forgotten  thee  here, 
Or  their  envy  forbidden  thy  spirit  its  sphere? 

Gentle  Margery  Blair! 
Thy  symmetrical  form  is  divine,  and  the  air 
Must  have  woven  its  graces,  such  lightness  is  there, 
While  the  melodies  blent  in  thy  rapturous  voice 
Are  the  softest  of  all  the  soft  children  of  choice. 

Distant  Margery  Blair! 
Undiminishing  miles  exercise  fiendish  care 
To  continue  thy  absence  and  mock  at  my  prayer, 
But,  O  hasten  the  day  when,  the  prince  of  the  blest, 
I  may  clasp  thee,  sweet  Margery  Blair,  to  my  breast ! 

98 


Repentance 


"L'amour  et  la  repentir  se  confondre   toujours" — HELOISE  TO 
ABELARD. 

O  MY  Margery  Blair! 

I  am  sick  with  the  sorrow  and  bowed  with  the  care 
Of  estrangement  and  silence  and  darkening  despair  ; 
I  am  sick  of  the  world,  and  would  fly  to  the  breast 
Where  thy  heart-beats,  my  beauty!  once  wooed  me  to  rest. 

Cruel  Margery  Blair! 

I  have  wandered,  but  now,  with  my  bosom  laid  bare, 
I  return,  and  appeal  with  a  penitent's  prayer; 
I  have  wandered,  'tis  true,  but  forgiveness  divine 
Surely  waits  on  a  soul  so  seraphic  as  thine. 

Wounded  Margery  Blair! 
Let  us  bind  our  abrasions,  together,  and  share 
The  spikenard  and  hyssop  our  ills  to  repair, 
For,  with  all  my  misgivings,  ah !  how  could  I  guess 
That  the  doubt  of  this  love  was  but  love's  own  excess? 

Listen,  Margery  Blair! 

There's  a  voice  in  my  spirit  which  whispers,  Beware! 
There  are  burdens,  since  Cain's,  which  no  mortal  may  bear, 
And,  although  self-envenomed,  unless  thou  wilt  cure, 
Oetan  flames  must  destroy  what  I  can  not  endure. 

99 


To  Angelica,  in  the  Canaries 


NEVER  call  them  the  Fortunate  Islands  again, 
Those  far  away  gems  of  the  tropical  sea; 

Though  delightful  each  valley  and  smiling  each  plain, 
Misfortune  alone  they  have  reckoned  to  me. 

Though  the  cool  winds  of  Atlas  come  over  the  way, 
And  tempered  Sahara  breathes  beauty  around, 

So  long  as  my  Angel  of  Peace  they  delay, 

I  bless  not  the  land  where  such  beauties  abound. 

When  you  yet  had  not  quitted  your  own  native  isle, 
Where  love  and  communion  had  blest  every  scene, 

It  was  sorrow  enough  that,  although  you  should  smile, 
The  waves  of  the  Mexico  thundered  between. 

It  was  sorrow  enough  while  you  yet  were  inclined 
To  abide  in  the  soft,  sunny  climate  of  Spain; 

Although,  even  then,  I  had  been  more  resigned, 
And  soon  could  have  hoped  to  behold  you  again. 

But  saddest  of  all,  cherished  child  of  the  sun ! 

Your  absence  in  those  distant  isles  to  deplore, 
Where  wildly  the  waves  on  the  rocky  coast  run 

And  Teneriffe  answers  the  sea  with  its  roar. 

100 


Then  return  from  the  Fortunate  Islands,  return! — 
Most  favored  of  all  in  the  smiles  you  impart; 

And,  endowed  with  a  wealth  ancient  oars  could  not  earn, 
Bring  back  the  same  treasure  you  carried — your  heart. 


101 


Crucita 


SHALL  I  say  that  I  love  thee,  Crucita? 

Shall  my  heart  its  deep  feelings  unfold? 
Vows  could  never  be  truer,  nor  passion  more  pure, 

Yet  the  truth  may  be  sometimes  too  bold. 

Shall  I  say  that  the  beauty  of  darkness 

Has  woven  a  crown  for  thy  brow, 
Or  has  built  it  a  nest  where  the  sunlight  may  rest, 

To  provoke  what  I  dare  not  avow  ? 

Shall  I  say  that  thy  bright  eyes  inflame  me? 

Such,  I  know,  would  be  feeble  indeed; 
But  because  words  are  weak,  shall  the  spirit  not  speak 

In  the  glance  which  a  glance  well  may  read  ? 

Ah!  yes,  gentle  child  of  the  tropics! 

My  devotion  has  long  been  confessed, 
And  all  life  shall  be  sweeter  and  brighter,  Crucita, 

When  thy  smile  shall  lull  longing  to  rest. 


102 


Cuba 

"Cuba  is  the  smile  of  the  sea" — INGERSOLL. 

YES,  "the  smile  of  the  sea,"  where  the  dark  senorita, 

With  a  glance  which  the  grating  between  renders  sweeter, 

Gazes  roguishly  forth  from  the  Eden  of  flowers 

Where  the  Eves  of  this  bright  land  have  builded  their  bowers. 


Half  concealed  from  the  sight  in  their  blooming  seclusion, 
How  their  scintillant  eyes  pierce  the  tangled  profusion 
Of  locks  spun  of  midnight:  how  subtle  the  wiles 
Which  enchantment  has  spread  in  their  mischievous  smiles! 

Yes,  how  willingly,  sweetly  those  red  lips  reveal 
All  the  treasures  those  lightly  hung  portals  conceal; 
While  the  heart,  burning  warmly  with  welcoming  glow, 
Bids  the  wayfarer  rest  from  the  world  and  its  woe. 

How  divine  is  the  touch  of  the  dimpled,  dark  hand, 
Unreluctantly  given,  with  no  prudery  banned! 
And  how  soft  is  the  cheek  where  the  kiss  of  the  sun 
Leaves  a  smile  for  the  sweetness  his  boldness  has  won ! 

Here  the  palms  kiss  the  skies,  here  the  waves  kiss  the  shore, 
And  the  bright-plumaged  birds  flash  and  sing  evermore; 

103 


Here  the  sweet  winds  of  heaven  breathe  a  drowsy  perfume 
'Till  their  march  the  charmed  Hours  half  forget  to  resume. 

Who  can  wonder  that  ocean  so  fondly  enfolds 
This,  the  fairest  of  fairylands  mortal  beholds? — 
That  the  bold  Genoese,  from  these  shores,  yet  untrod, 
Raised  Columbia's  first  hymn  to  the  mariner's  God  ? 

Well  I  love  thee,  bright  isle!  where  the  stranger's  sad  eyes 
Learned  to  brighten  again  with  the  light  of  thy  skies ; 
And,  O  yet  may  the  sunlight  and  stars  of  the  free 
Gently  smile  upon  "Cuba,  the  smile  of  the  sea." 

Havana,  December,  I 


104 


Restored 


FROM  the  land  where  the  Lethean  waters  descend, 

And  the  languishing  light  makes  more  gloomy  the  gloom 

That  enshrouds  the  calm  banks  where  the  poppy  stalks  bend, 
And  the  spirit  is  seared  with  the  chill  breath  of  doom, — 

From  the  mysteries  of  silence  that  dwell  in  the  tomb, 
Where  the  chrysalis  souls  wait  the  Spring  of  the  blest, 

I  return,  sickened  yet  with  the  drowsy  perfume, 

To  the  earth  and  the  life-love  which  thou  hast  confessed. 

Had  those  ultimate  regions  refused  to  restore 

Him  who  long  had  breathed  sunshine  and  shadow  with  thee, 
Thou,  perchance,  wouldst  have  deigned  for  awhile  to  deplore 

That  companionship's  pleasures  no  longer  could  be. 

Thou,  perchance,  wouldst  have  turned  to  the  days  that  are  fled, 
When  together  we  threaded  youth's  flowery  way, 

And,  in  kindness  forgetting  the  faults  of  the  dead, 
Dropped  a  tear  on  the  prisoning  dust  where  he  lay. 

But,  restored  to  the  blessing  of  wandering  with  thee 
Through  the  bowery  roses  which  Loves  intertwine, 

I  shall  sing — we  shall  sing — of  a  sorrow  set  free, 
And  a  day  that  has  dawned  with  a  glory  divine. 

105 


Leo  XIII 


PECCI  or  Pontifex,  bishop  or  Vicar, 

Salve  aeternum ! 
Here  in  the  shadow-land  creeds  cease  to  bicker; 

Salve  aeternum! 
Ancient  of  days  thou  art, 
And  who  shall  say  thy  heart 
Chose  not  the  better  part  ? 

Salve  aeternum! 

Quirinal  or  Vatican,  crown  or  tiara, 

Salve  aeternum! 
Bethlehem  triumphs  still  over  Megara. 

Salve  aeternum ! 
Jarnac  was  long  ago; 
They  whose  sires  struck  the  blow 
All  thy  own  virtues  know. 

Salve  seternum ! 

Thine  is  the  common  fate ; 

Salve  aeternum! 
Death  comes  or  soon  or  late ; 

Salve  sternum! 
Yet  thou  hast  left  a  name 
Kings  could  not  dare  to  claim, 

1 06 


Loftily  free  from  blame. 
Salve  aeternum ! 

Pcccf  or  Pontifex,  bishop  or  Vicar, 

Salve  aeternum ! 
Here  in  the  shadow-land  creeds  cease  to  bicker. 

Salve  aeternum! 
Long  has  thy  journey  been, 
Patriarch  paladin; 
Now  that  you  enter  in, 

Salve  aeternum! 


107 


"My  Sea" 

"How  I  shall  miss  my  sea!" — Pius  X. 

AROUND  me  throng  the  Noble  Guards, 

The  flower  of  knightly  grace; 
The  faithful  Switzers  ward  my  way 

In  their  accustomed  place; 
The  princes  of  the  church  bow  down 

To  own  my  high  degree, 
And  yet  with  splendor  everywhere, 

How  I  shall  miss  my  sea! 

I  hold  the  hearts  of  half  the  world; 

The  empire  of  the  soul 
Is  centered  in  the  narrow  sphere 

Of  my  white  shepherd's  stole ; 
The  petty  kings  who  reign  and  rule 

Are  underlings  to  me — 
And  yet,  amidst  this  panoply, 

Ah !  how  I  miss  my  sea ! 

Last  night  I  dreamed  that  once  again, 

Beneath  the  waxing  moon, 
I  floated  by  the  palaces 

That  line  the  Great  Lagoon; 

1 08 


The  Adrian  breezes  kissed  my  cheek 

In  fresh,  exultant  glee, 
But  here  I  woke  in  narrow  walls: — 

How  I  shall  miss  my  sea! 

A  captive  on  this  beetling  hill, 

I  mark  the  winding  course 
Of  yellow  Tiber  from  its  mouth 

To  yonder  Sabine  source; 
O,  all  around  is  free,  but  I 

Who  hold  St.  Peter's  key 
Unloose  all  locks  except  mine  own:- 

How  I  shall  miss  my  sea ! 


109 


Once  More 


THE  shadows  gather  in  my  heart, 

The  night  winds  chill  my  soul, 
And  they  who  only  met  to  part 

Must^play  their  wretched  role. 
But  one  more  cup  to  crown  the  feast, 

One  chansonette  to  close, 
And  then  good-night  until  the  east 

Of  heavenly  day-break  glows. 


The  dial  of  our  destiny 

Marks  midnight's  parting  hour. 
However  sweet  thy  guest  to  be, 

Despair  must  be  our  dower. 
But  lend  the  courage  of  a  kiss, 

One  long  embrace  the  more 
To  brighten  memory  with  the  bliss 

Which  hope  can  not  restore. 


The  threatening  thread-hung  blade  of  fate 

Gleams  just  above  my  head. 
To  reign  is  but  a  fool's  estate — 

The  royal  joy  of  dread. 

no 


But,  'midst  the  rapture  of  alarms, 

O,  let  me  rule  again 
Within  the  empire  of  thine  arms, 

And  death  may  end  my  reign. 


in 


"Spring  is  Winter's  Warning' 


WHAT  is  Spring  but  Winter's  warning? 

What  is  sullen  night 
But  the  dotage  of  the  moaning, 

If  we  read  aright? 
Withering  in  the  sombre  glade 
Lie  the  leaves  beneath  whose  shade 
Once  so  lovingly  we  strayed, 

Merrily  a-Maying. 
Coldly  flows  the  strangled  stream 
Where,  beneath  a  warmer  beam, 
We  were  wont  to  sit  and  dream, 

Love  to  love  betraying. 

What  is  life  but  sheathing  myrtle 

For  the  blade,  despair? 
Comes  the  thunderbolt  to  hurtle 

Through  the  summer  air. 
See!  ambition's  every  hope 
Strews  the  sear  and  wintry  slope 
Where,  in  Spring,  we  watched  it  ope — 

Spring,  the  soft  deceiver! 
And  the  chilly  winds  of  fate 
Freeze  the  currents,  once  elate, 
But  which  now  alas !  pulsate 

Feebler  from  their  fever. 

112 


In  Silence 


COULD  feeling  flow  to  words  as  free 
As  flows  thy  blood  to  beauty, 

These  silent  lips  would  never  be 
Unworthy  of  their  duty, 

And  on  Affection's  pirate  sea 
This  heart  would  claim  its  booty. 

But  with  thine  eloquence  of  glance 

And  thy  convictive  smiling, 
Expression  can  not  break  the  trance 

Of  thine  own  soft  beguiling, 
So  take  the  heart  which,  wordless,  pants 

Through  Fate's  austere  exiling. 


"3 


The  Golden  Wedding 


WE  have  reached  the  golden  evening, 
We  have  measured  out  the  span 

Which  the  Psalmist's  sacred  numbers 
Called  the  destined  years  of  man. 

We  have  crossed  the  sterile  desert 
Where  the  Marah  fountains  flow, 

And  from  Pisgah's  sunny  summit 
Face  the  Canaan  just  below. 

But  the  pillar  of  affection 

Has  directed  all  our  way, 
Every  night  a  burning  beacon, 

And  a  guiding  cloud  by  day. 

Hope  has  sent  the  strengthening  manna, 
Faith  has  made  the  rock  a  rill, 

And  the  God  who  guarded  Israel 
Keeps  His  watch  above  us  still. 

We  have  reached  the  golden  Autumn 

Of  our  fellow-journeying, 
But,  with  sweet  October  fruitage, 

Who  could  ask  the  buds  of  Spring? 

114 


So  with  hearts  more  warmly  wedded, 

Let  us  lovingly  abide 
Till  we  go  to  meet  the  welcome 

Of  the  Spirit  and  the  Bride. 


The  Platonists 


SHALL  man  commend  his  strength  of  will. 

In  plucking  not  the  fruit, 
Or  curse  suggestion  stoutlier  still 

For  broaching  thus  the  brute? 

The  Platonists  are  solemn  fools, 

The  eunuchs  of  desire, 
For  it  must  be  that  that  which  rules 

Is  fortitude  or  fire. 


116 


Discontent 


I  SIGHED  for  a  desolate  island 

Where  none  might  intrude  on  my  dreams-v 
Where  hours  all  alone  I  might  while  and 

Alone  pace  the  banks  of  its  streams. 

I  found  me  the  desolate  island; 

But  there  all  unquiet  I  dreamed. 
The  hours  were  too  lonely  to  while  and 

I  sighed  till  gone  days  were  redeemed. 


117 


Sarah  in  Town 


AH,  SALLY  of  the  country  lanes, 

Sun-bonnetted  and  brown, 
You  gave  the  dawn  a  fresher  face 

When  you  came  tripping  down; 
The  bright  brooks  pledged  a  health  to  you, 

The  wild  rose  gave  a  crown; — 
But  now  your  hands  are  soft,  and  you 

Are  Sarah  here  in  town. 

Sweet  Sally  of  the  country  lanes, 

Your  heart  was  like  a  pool 
Where  every  feeling  glassed  itself, 

Serenely  calm  and  cool; 
The  prattle  of  your  girlish  lips 

Was  simple  as  your  gown; — 
But  now  you  take  to  French  and  frills 

As  Sarah  here  in  town. 

With  what  enchanting  changes  you 

Could  pout  and  pirouette, 
The  sunshine  breaking  from  your  eyes 

Before  the  lids  were  wet; 
But  ah !  the  Vere  de  Vere  repose, 

With  neither  smile  nor  frown, 

lift 


Is  stamped  upon  you  since  you  came 
As  Sarah  here  to  town. 

I  wonder,  when  the  orchestra, 

With  melting  strains  of  Strauss, 
Has  set  your  senses  swimming  in 

Some  big,  bright,  crowded  house, 
If  fettered  feelings  do  not  turn 

To  where  the  thrushes  brown 
And  all  the  early  morning  choir 

Call  Sarah  back  from  town. 

Sweet  Sarah  of  the  tinsel  world, 

Your  heart  is  still  of  gold ; 
Your  face,  in  all  its  masquerade, 

Is  charming  to  behold  ; 
You  little  know  how  soon  the  crowd 

Is  jaded  with  the  clown, 
And  how  refreshing  it  would  be 

If  Sally  came  to  town. 


119 


Her  Married  Name 


IN  THE  mountains,  years  ago, 

Underneath  the  arching  vine, 
How  she  stirred  the  pulsing  currents 

With  her  little  hand  in  mine! 
And  in  dreams  she  comes  again, 

Shy  and  sweet  as  then  she  came: — 
I  would  write  and  tell  her,  only 

I  forget  her  married  name. 

Where  the  bounding  billows  rolled, 

Like  the  beating  of  my  heart, 
When  we  railed  in  rugged  phrases 

At  our  fate  that  we  must  part, 
How  she  femininely  swore 

Death  would  find  her  still  the  same! 
I  would  write  and  tell  her,  only 

I  forget  her  married  name. 

Here  are  letters,  pink  and  pale, 
Pale  and  old,  but  their  perfume, 

Like  a  rising  incense,  sweetens 
All  the  corners  of  my  room; 

At  the  end  of  each  a  word 

Quite  the  dearest  pen  could  frame: 

1 2O 


I  would  send  them  to  her,  only 
I  forget  her  married  name. 

Why,  from  this  one  drops  a  curl, 

Soft  as  silk  and  bright  as  gold! — 
Quite  as  silken  in  its  softness 

As  in  golden  days  of  old. 
She  should  have  it  back,  I  know, 

But  I  really  fear  the  shame 
Should  it  prove  her  brunette  sister 

Who  took  on  a  married  name. 


121 


"These  Dog-Eared  Books' 

r 

I  KNOW  the  value  of  the  shelves 

Wherein  a  nation's  hoard 
Of  first  editions,  out-of-prints, 

And  vellum  tomes  are  stored, 
And  musty  scholars  there  may  spell 

The  quaint  old  English  line; 
But  what  are  they  to  me?    I  have 

These  dog-eared  books  of  mine. 


Here's  one  which  came  from  old  Madrid, 

While  this  one  came  from  Tours, 
And  this,  a  sou  on  Sa'n'  Michel 

Was  ample  to  procure. 
A  cockney  bookman  swore  that  this 

Was  bound  too  rummy  fine 
To  sell  well,  so  I  placed  it  with 

These  dog-eared  books  of  mine. 

A  black-eyed  maiden  of  Arqua, 

In  days  when  I  was  young, 
Gave  these  Petrarchan  sonnettes,  in 

Soft  Petrarch's  liquid  tongue; 
And  this  old  Wilhelm  Meister  came 

From  somewhere  on  the  Rhine: — 

122 


Children  of  many  lands  are  they, 
These  dog-eared  books  of  mine. 

They  all  are  dear  as  are  the  days 

When  they  were  rummaged  out, 
But  as  to  which  is  dearest,  there 

Is  not  a  moment's  doubt; 
For  here  and  there  in  this  appears 

A  dainty  pencilled  line: 
Most  dog-eared,  therefore,  are  its  leaves 

Of  all  these  books  of  mine. 


123 


My  Ships 


THESE  are  the  hazy,  lazy  days  when  one  would  like  to  dream 
Among  the  purple  muscadines  that  line  some  drowsy  stream, 
And  quite  forget  the  fret  and  care  that  everybody  meets, 
And  wish  so  much  of  this  old  world  was  not  cut  up  in  streets. 

For  what's  the  use  of  all  the  toil  to  buy  up  hill  and  mead, 
When  six  feet  in  the  shade  is  all  you  ever  really  need, 
And  when  no  longer  you  can  know  the  sundown  from  the  dawn — 
Well,  they'll  put  you  with  some  other  mighty  good  ones  that  are 

gone. 

You  see  that  fleecy  argosy  which  drifts  above  the  trees, 
With  swelling  sails  which  slowly  move  across  the  azure  seas? 
It  leads  me  vastly  nearer  toward  the  envied  Golden  Fleece 
Than  all  the  stately  triremes  that  have  churned  away  from  Greece. 

Still,  there  must  be  the  captains  to  adventure  and  command, 
And  merchants,  sharp  and  shifty,  when  the  prow  has  touched  the 

strand, 

And  others  still  to  chaffer  in  the  open  market  place, 
And  strive  with  one  another  for  the  highest  rank  and  place. 

But  while  I  know  that  ship  of  mine  is  never  coming  in, 
For  journeys  surely  never  end  until  they  first  begin, 
The  floating  fleets  of  every  hue  that  sail  so  stately  by, — 
They  all  are  mine,  so  long  as  I  can  dream  beneath  the  sky. 

124 


Bas  Bleu 


ON  CYNTHIA'S  table  lie  a  score 

Of  novels  new  and  old, 
In  cloth  and  Russian  leather  bound, 

With  titles  stamped  in  gold; 
Grave  histories,  flanked  by  chic  memoirs, 

And  flowers  of  verse  in  sheaves, 
But  ah!  believe  her  not; — you'll  find 

She  never  cuts  the  leaves. 

To  see  her  "putting"  on  the  links, 

Or  sporting  in  the  wave, 
You'd  scarce  expect  this  shapely  miss 

Could  be  so  wise  and  grave 
As  these  octavos,  scattered  'round, 

Imply — and  ah!  it  grieves 
Me  greatly  to  discover  that 

She  never  cuts  the  leaves. 

When  she  ascribes  to  Sydney  Smith 

A  Curran  anecdote, 
And  thinks  "Utopia"  the  best 

Thing  Tom  Moore  ever  wrote, 
One  marvels  she  should  err  so  far, 

Till  he  at  last  perceives 

125 


That,  though  these  tomes  are  well  displayed, 
She  never  cuts  the  leaves. 

And  yet  I'm  quite  as  well  content, 

For  there  old  Balzac  lies, 
And  who  would  claim  Boccaccio 

Quite  fit  for  female  eyes, 
And  horrors!  there  lies  Rabelais; — 

The  outre  tales  he  weaves 
I  think  had  just  as  well  remain 

Among  the  uncut  leaves! 

And  yet  sweet  Cynthia  has  one  book 

She  always  keeps  apart, 
Worth  all  her  dainty  Elzevirs — 

The  volume  of  her  heart. 
Provoking  Cynthia,  grave  or  gay, 

Ah !  how  my  spirit  grieves 
That,  with  my  best  endeavors,  still 

I  may  not  cut  the  leaves. 


126 


Song  of  the  July-fly 


FOR  I  am  the  July-fly! 
My  music  is  of  no  particular  school, 
I  know  very  little  of  rhythm  and  rule, 
And  I  like  all  weather — so  it  isn't  cool, 

For  I  am  the  July-fly! 

I'm  as  full  as  a  kitten  of  fun; 
When  the  mercury  climbs  to  a  hundred  and  one 
It  seems  that  the  heat  leaves  the  work  half  done, 
So  I  strike  up  a  tune,  out  here  in  the  sun, 
Till  the  whole  world  sizzles  like  a  new-fried  bun, 

For  I  am  the  July-fly! 

Yes,  I  am  the  July-fly! 
I  make  my  appearance  in  the  month  of  June, 
And  for  fear  that  people  think  I  leave  too  soon, 
I  stay  on  a  month  from  the  Harvest  moon, 

For  I  am  the  July-fly! 

And  when  there  comes  a  breeze, 
And  the  people  all  get  stretched  out  at  ease 
And  seem  to  forget  for  a  while  that  these 
Are  the  canine  days,  I  get  in  the  trees 
And  strike  up  my  saucy  little  song  of  degrees, 

For  I  am  the  July-fly! 

127 


Yes,  I  am  the  July-fly! 
Old  Lazy  Lawrence  is  a  chum  of  mine, 
And  where  long  acres  of  the  white  sand  shine, 
I  pipe  and  he  dances  in  a  way  that's  fine, 

For  I  am  the  July-fly! 

I  know  that  people  swear 
At  my  humble,  unoperatic  air, 
But  as  long  as  the  bulb  stays  away  up  there, 
And  the  jolly  old  sun  sheds  a  shimmering  glare, 
Not  one  continental  damnatus  do  I  care, 

For  I  am  the  July-fly! 


128 


"She  Whom  I  Loved  is  Dead' 


SHE  whom  I  loved  is  dead ;  but  not  as  die 

The  pilgrims  to  the  tomb!     Still  in  her  eye 

Light's  fatal  fount  of  fairness  flows,  and  mocks 

The  demon,  Torture,  and  the  heartquake's  shocks; 

Still  might  those  lips,  flushed  cheeks  and  lively  form 

Make  sculptor's  marble  dreams  in  envy  warm 

To  Galatean  life;  she  might  assume 

Upon  her  chiseled  brow  a  living  bloom; 

Still  she  could  smile  on  my  exhausted  soul 

And  wake  it  into  wildest  uncontrol, 

As  when,  'neath  skies  which  storms  have  late  swept  free, 

Volcanoes  burst  from  out  the  sleeping  sea. 

Yet  she  is  dead,  for  more  than  dead  are  those 

Whom  resurrection  wakes  not  from  repose. 

She  whom  I  loved  in  youth's  unclouded  Spring, 

When  vocal  passion  first  began  to  sing; 

Who  first  instructed  this  wrecked  heart  of  mine 

How  nearly  mutual  love  could  be  divine ; 

With  whom,  in  those  sweet,  unreturning  days, 

When  the  trusting  heart  each  tender  sense  betrays, 

I  chased  the  Loves  and  Hours,  with  nimble  feet, 

Imbibed  pure  joys,  and  deemed  that  life  was  sweet; 

She  whom  I  breathed — whose  light,  like  that  which  yields 

Nurture  to  dwellers  in  Elysian  Fields, 

129 


Was  my  soul's  sustenance,  has  passed  away, 
And  left  this  stifled  heart  no  beam  of  day! 

She  whom  I  loved  is  dead!     I  did  not  fold 

The  shroud  about  her  beauteous  form,  made  cold 

By  the  Cimber  touch,  the  traitorous  kiss  of  him 

The  mortal-loving  of  the  Seraphim ; 

I  did  not  twine,  with  tender,  loving  care, 

Pale  lilies — pale,  pure  lilies,  in  her  hair; 

Place  snowy  roses  on  her  snowy  breast, 

Nor  chant  above  her  symphonies  of  rest ; 

I  did  not  stand  beside  her  silent  grave, 

And  watch  the  weeping  willows  o'er  her  wave, 

Dropping  upon  her  sacred  dust  the  tears 

Which  memory  claimed  for  the  departed  years; 

Yet  she  is  dead!    Ah!  that  it  thus  had  been! 

Sweet  spirit,  thus  desiring,  do  I  sin? 

For  then  those  charms  which  mocked  my  fruitless  quest 

Would  never  make  another  soul  more  blest; 

The  smile  and  glance  which  once  were  mine  alone, 

Could  be  no  other's,  though  no  more  my  own. 

She  whom  I  loved  is  dead !  the  death  of  change, 

Since  'tis  annihilation  to  estrange. 

The  mystic  sage  of  Hellas'  pensive  schools 

Well  taught  that  change  throughout  all  nature  rules. 

The  ceaseless  tides  of  ocean  ebb  and  flow, 

Flowers  fade  and  flourish,  summer  melts  the  snow; 

Then  why  not  Love?     Still  when  affections  range, 

How  hard  to  bend  our  spirits  to  the  change! 

The  tide  but  ebbs  to  swell  beyond  the  main  ; 

The  self-same  rose,  regenerate,  blooms  again. 

130 


The  mists  that  from  the  melting  mountains  rise 

Again  will  fall  in  snowflakes  from  the  skies; 

But  what  wise  heart,  once  seared  with  passion's  fire, 

Lights  new  love  at  the  lost  one's  funeral  pyre? 

Sooner  its  fondness  for  a  happier  past 

The  dying  flame  will  cherish  to  the  last, 

And,  loath  to  lose  the  pleasure,  bear  the  pain, 

Even  though  but  ghosts  of  pleasure  now  remain, 

Than  wake  the  torch,  which,  though  its  beams  be  bright, 

At  last  must  waste  the  spirit  with  its  blight. 

Sooner  by  far  that  on  the  streamless  plain 

The  thirsty  heart  should  languish  in  its  pain 

Than  strike  the  rock  whose  trickling  stream  will  grow 

A  'whelming  cataract  as  its  currents  flow. 

What  mockery  in  the  vows  of  love  and  trust 

She  penned  and,  perjured,  trampled  in  the  dust! 

Endearing  terms! — each  now  returns  a  ghoul 

To  crouch  above  my  perished  peace  of  soul. 

So  lately,  too,  her  warmest  vows  were  said, 

And  now  behold !  she  whom  I  loved  is  dead ! 

As  when  on  Adria's  tantalizing  sea 

The  exile,  parting  from  his  Italy, 

Storm-tossed,  again  beheld  his  native  shore, 

Where  his  forbidden  feet  could  tread  no  more; 

So,  long  distressed  with  my  tempestuous  lot, 

Which  drove  me  from  creation's  fairest  spot, 

I  glimpsed  again  my  heart's  denied  delight, 

And  then  re-plunged  into  eternal  night. 

She  whom  I  loved  is  dead.  A  long  farewell ! 
Whether  in  heaven  or  earth  our  spirits  dwell, 
We  meet  no  more !  No  longer  now  we  scorn 

131 


The  interdictions  to  the  earthly  born, 

Firm  in  the  knowledge  that  beyond  the  stars 

Imprisoned  hearts  no  longer  beat  their  bars! 

Despairing  thought,  that  those  whom  earth  has  riven 

Can  not  be  unestranged  at  least  in  heaven ! 

Yet  so  it  is!     Another  soon  will  claim 

The  passions  which  for  me  no  longer  flame, 

And  love  will  bless  him  with  those  sacred  ties 

Which  rest  still  undissevered  in  the  skies. 

How  faith  and  hope  have  made  my  breast  to  swell! — 

But  they  are  vain  now,  so  farewell!  farewell! 

She  whom  I  loved  is  dead!  and  I  depart, 

Since  from  the  peaceful  hearthstone  of  my  heart 

My  household  gods  are  rudely  swept  away, 

And  there  the  demon,  Torture,  holds  his  sway. 

"Eat  not  the  heart!"     Ah,  bitter  food;  and  so, 

Since  false  Leucadia's  plunge  brings  greater  woe, 

I  seek  a  land  where  cooler  fountains  play, 

And  brighter  skies  of  promise  arch  the  day; 

Where  golden  fruit  in  vast  profusion  falls 

Even  o'er  the  ruins  of  deserted  halls; 

Where  the  sun-kissed  cheek,  which,  if  as  fair  as  those 

That  blessed  a  kindred  clime  I  know  of,  glows 

With  soothing  beauty  for  the  slighted  heart, 

And  makes  the  wounded  soul  forget  its  smart! 

Where  Nature,  stealing  o'er  the  spirit  throws 

Its  soft  serenity  upon  our  woes, 

And  heaven  and  earth,  conspiring,  may  beguile 

The  sullen  lip  again  to  speak  or  smile. 

To  this  far  land,  self-exiled,  I  shall  stray, 

And  force  my  spirit  to  be  sometimes  gay; 

132 


But,  though  forever  from  this  drugged  repose, 

Anguish  anon  must  wake  with  rending  throes, 

And  half-forgotten  days,  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  skilled  Arachne's  web,  revive  despair; 

Still  this  wronged  heart  forgives  each  broken  vow, 

And,  loving  once,  can  not  but  bless  her  now, 

Happy  if  for  the  exile  she  should  shed 

One  tear  that  he  whom  she  loved  not  is  dead. 


133 


The  Parson 


"dnswer  a  fool  according  to  his  folly,  lest  he  be 
wise  in  his  own  conceit." — PROVERBS  xxvi  15. 

GRANT  me,  ye  Muses,  whom  we  call  divine, 
The  fool — if  fool  there  be — of  all  the  Nine, 
Whose  addled  brain  and  vile,  vindictive  heart 
Befit  her  best  to  play  the  Parson's  part — 
Grant  me  that  she,  for  once,  at  least,  preside, 
And  teach  my  peaceful  dictum  to  deride ; 
For  lo!  her  rival  in  un-Christian  creeds, 
Stoled,  for  lost  souls,  in  evangelic  weeds, 
Sober  and  sad  at  sin's  unbridled  sway — 
Or  that  twelve  hundred  is  his  utmost  pay — 
Has  come,  with  all  the  ignorance  and  pride 
Which  go  to  make  mankind's  immortal  guide, 
Swearing,  ye  Muses,  that  we  should  assign 
To  him  alone  the  title  of  divine. 

His  be  the  choice — a  God-given  right  he  claims — 
To  feed  with  scorn  resentment's  feverish  flames, 
Against  the  heart  to  set  his  spiteful  heel 
As  the  last  shift  to  make  his  hearers  feel, 
To  close  the  Book  whose  beauties  lie  too  deep, 
And  take  the  besom  of  the  chimney-sweep; 
His  be  the  choice  with  worse  than  mocker's  gall 

134 


The  weak  and  wandering  Christian  to  recall, 
To  break  the  crozier  and  corrupt  the  host, 
Adapt  the  hymnal  to  a  mauldin  toast, 
Blaspheme  in  prayer  and  in  unrighteous  rage 
To  tear  the  sacred  Scriptures  page  by  page, 
Enshrill  the  softness  of  the  Sabbath  bell 
And  "pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  Hell." 
His  be  the  choice — ye  lenient  pastors  hear, 
Lest  ye  be  damned  with  those  whose  course  ye  steer- 
When  spiritual  sheep  escape  the  guardian  pen 
For  greener  grasses  in  the  worldly  glen, 
And,  firm  in  their  infatuating  fault, 
Defy  the  tether  and  ignore  the  salt, 
To  vow  that  where  the  soil  of  sin  has  smeared, 
Their  fleece  must  be — O  no,  not  washed,  but  sheared, 
Or  grasp — with  envy — their  protecting  coat, 
And,  singing  "Agnus  Dei!"  cut  their  throat. 
Mine  be  it  the  redeemer  to  redeem, 
And  soothe  him  with  "an  honest  bard's  esteem." 


Scorning  persuasive  love's  awakening  spell, 

This  new  Prometheus  steals  his  fire  from  Hell, 

And  claims — himself  a  mocker  of  restraints — 

To  curse  rebellious  sinners  into  saints. 

What  though  the  law  which  he  presumes  to  plead 

On  human  charity  has  based  its  creed, 

Does  he  "rejoice  with  those  who  do  rejoice" 

And  "with  the  weeping"  lift  his  "weeping"  voice? 

What  though  to  "love  thy  neighbor"  be  esteemed 

The  surest  hostage  of  the  unredeemed, 

Does  he — vile  harlot  of  the  sacred  pale — 

135 


Give  wine  or  wormwood  to  the  faint  and  frail? 

Yes,  misery  is  the  mulct  we  pay  for  breath, 

And  life  itself  the  sorrier  name  for  death. 

"The  Lord  thy  God," — thus  is  the  wonder  billed, 

"Will  send  a  wild  ass."     It  has  been  fulfilled. 

Strong  are  his  heels  and  wide  his  caudal  sway, 

Long  are  his  ears  and  thunder-lunged  his  bray, — 

Not  formed  for  speed,  he  is,  but  who  can  find 

All  virtues  in  one  donkey  hide  combined? 

See  how  he  prances  in  self-conscious  pride, 

Rolls  his  big  eyes  and  bids  some  Balaam  ride, 

Whinnies  salvation;  in  lugubrious  brays 

Presumes  to  sing  his  "Great  Creator's  praise!" 

See  how  his  grimed,  unholy  hoofs  invade 

The  sacred  chancel,  bold  and  undismayed! 

He  thinks  the  incense  and  the  seraphim, 

The  songs  and  genuflections  are  for  him. 

The  Lord  has  sent  him :  yes ;  thus  much,  with  ease, 

The  stupid  ass — er,  pardon, — Parson  sees; 

But  as  he  sends  the  simoon  or  the  blse, 

A  famine  or  a  justice  of  the  peace; 

Has  sent  him  as  he  sends  our  monthly  bills, 

Our  country  cousins  or  our  liver  pills, 

To  purge  us  of  our  worldly  dross  for  heaven, 

And  give  our  pan-cake  souls  their  proper  leaven; — 

Not  by  the  means  of  precept  and  example, 

Though  even  for  this  his  ass-ship,  sure,  is  ample, 

But  that  we  may  with  horror  and  amaze 

Behold  what  pranks  creation  sometimes  plays, 

And,  with  rebellious,  godless  lips  struck  dumb, 

Make  haste  to  turn  "and  flee  the  wrath  to  come." 

And  are  there  none  of  all  the  boastful  crowd 

136 


Who  shake  their  fists  in  rage  and  swear  so  loud 

Will  dare  to  tame  him?     He  is  strong  enow, 

And,  though  he  can  not  reap  nor  sow,  may  plow! 

Thus  sings  the  bard  with  reason  but  profanity: 

"Ecclesiates  said  that  'All  is  vanity,' 

Most  modern  preachers  say  the  same,  or  show  it." 

None  dare  deny  the  judgment  of  the  poet. 

But  can  ye  blame  him  that  his  pastoral  pride 

Rebelled  to  see  his  unctions  unapplied? 

To  see  cold  benches  or  a  colder  look, 

Which  never  melted  till  he  closed  the  Book? 

Whose  choler  would  not  rise  to  thus  behold 

So  many  thankless  sheep  within  the  fold? 

Dull  prayers  and  stupid  sermons  he  had  spawned, 

While  half  the  congregation  slept  or  yawned, 

Until,  despairing  from  his  shallow  brain, 

Where  force  and  logic  had  been  wooed  in  vain, 

To  make  one  temperate,  rational  appeal 

To  hearts  which  through  convicted  judgment  feel; 

Despairing  from  his  sterile  soul  to  build 

The  fabric  of  a  fancy,  or  to  gild 

Eternal  laws  with  such  supernal  dyes 

As  could  not  but  engage  aesthetic  eyes; 

Despairing  to  acquire  the  ripened  yields 

Which  grow  in  information's  fertile  fields — 

Although  we  have  it  upon  good  report 

That  he  attended  once  a  Justice  court, 

And  from  a  peddler  even  learned  to  speak 

The  alphabet, — a  part,  I'm  sure — in  Greek; 

Despairing — ah!  were  ignorance  a  crime 

The  hangman  would  have  spared  this  need  for  thyme — 

To  call  up  Samuels  from  the  tomb  of  mind, 

137 


With  prophet-wisdom  to  instruct  mankind, 

This  maniac  Moslem,  with  horrific  frown, 

Grasps  his  drawn  sword  and  throws  the  Koran  down, 

Cries  "Allah  acbar!"  and  by  Khaled  swears 

He'll  have  our  blood  unless  we  say  our  prayers. 

Immortal  spirits  of  the  great  and  wise 

Who  look  upon  us  from  cerulean  skies! 

Shades  of  all  dramatists  who  intervene 

From  crude  Euripides  to  smooth  Racine; 

All  ye  departed  who  have  dared  recite 

The  rhapsodies  ye  did,  or  did  not,  write! 

Ghost  of  Melpomene,  whom  farce  has  slain, 

Thalia,  who  died  from  softening  of  the  brain! 

Attend,  attend,  ye  Thespian  spectres,  all, 

And  see  the  fabric  ye  have  builded,  fall! 

When  Drama  flourished  in  its  Golden  Age, 

And  Talma,  Rachel,  had  not  left  the  stage, 

When  taste  was  delicate  and  judgment  just, 

And  skill  to  candor  might  confide  its  trust, 

If  pens  mismirrored  Nature,  tortured  art, 

Or  blundering  Bottoms  whined  their  murdered  part, 

It  was  the  privilege  of  those  who  paid 

To  "damn"  (I  quote)  the  play  or  those  who  played; 

But  now  a  fierce,  illiberal  bigot's  rage 

May  damn  all  actors  and  each  printed  page. 

Thou,  too,  Terpsichore,  he  has  dared  assail — 
If  "words  were  things"  his  quarrel  would  prevail — 
And  with  the  lashings  of  envenomed  wrath 
Would  drive  the  sylphs  of  pleasure  from  his  path. 
Thy  slippered  feet  will  but  more  freely  fly 

138 


To  that  perdition  which  is  now  too  nigh ; 

Thy  gauzy  gowns  and  mildly  melting  smiles 

Are  but  the  surest  of  the  Devil's  wiles. 

Across  the  floor  who  dares  to  waltz — or  limp — 

Is  but  a  sensual  roue  or  a  pimp. 

We  will  not  say — for  satire's  every  thrust 

Beyond   all  peradventure  should   be  just — 

That  'gainst  delights  where  he  must  not  engage 

His  club-foot  calling  piques  his  envious  rage; 

For  it  may  be — and  truth  must  be  respected — 

That  on  vain  life  so  long  he  has  reflected, 

Read  Proverbs  and  the  Preacher,  St.  Augustine, 

Jerome,  and  all  the  other  saints  we  trust  in, 

That  he  cares  nothing  for  the  frilled  and  f rocked: — 

Of  course  he  would  be  welcome  if  he  knocked ! 

And  thou,  offending  power  of  the  press — 

Which  would  not  print  his  sermons! — come,  confess, 

Is  not  thine  influence  or  thy  silence  sold 

For  veiled  preferment  or  insidious  gold? 

Hast  thou  not  been,  through  all  the  long  array 

Of  names  from  Caxton  to  the  present  day, 

The  venal  agent  of  corruption,  fraud 

And  shame — especially  when  thy  mind  was  broad? 

What  fund  was  ever  due  to  thy  appeal? 

Against  what  serpent  ever  set  thy  heel? 

Who  ever  knew  thee,  when  distraction  reigned, 

And  human  rights  and  feelings  were  disdained, 

To  bid  the  wild,  tumultuous  ravings  cease, 

Or  spread  thy  guardian  wings  and  plead  for  peace? 

Never! — at  least  such  journalistic  freaks 

Are  not  the  gratis  sheets  the  Parson  takes. 

139 


Melodious  measures  whose  eternal  spring 

Flows  from  that  God  who  bade  the  planets  sing; 

Sweet  soul  of  concord  which  assumed  its  sway 

When  morning  broke  and  chaos  rolled  away; 

Employment  of  the  angels,  pledge  of  peace, 

The  voice  of  prayer,  the  fettered  heart's  release, 

Shall  thy  proud  harp,  which  pleased  our  Maker's  ear, 

Which  David  strung  and  Saul  rejoiced  to  hear, 

Which  Miriam  woke,  and  old  Isaiah  attuned, 

Be  thus  ignobly  censured  and  buffooned? 

Shall  thy  soft  cadence  and  celestial  tone 

Become  the  mockery  of  a  soulless  drone? 

I  know,  dear  harp !  that  feeble  hands  like  mine 

Can  never  fire  thee  with  a  touch  divine. 

Groping  in  darkness  through  a  world  of  care, 

And  stung  by  lips  which  might  have  moved  with  prayer; 

Struck  by  the  hand  assigned  to  raise  and  guide, 

Scorned  in  ambition  and  enraged  in  pride, 

I  know  my  minstrel  fingers  strike  amiss, 

But  shalt  thou  be,  dear  harp,  reviled  for  this? 

And  who  is  he,  the  sycophantic  fool, 

Who  dares  impugn  the  whole  poetic  school? 

His  mossy  brain,  where,  should  an  idea  stray, 

'Twould  die  from  loneliness  or  damp  decay, 

His  heart  whose  passions — well,  we'll  let  that  go, 

With  much  besides  even  satire  should  not  show. 

So  stop,  my  rhyme,  and  let  his  ass-ship  bray, 
Because  I  wrote  this  on  the  Sabbath  day. 


140 


The  Pettifogger 


"No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride 
Save  death  or  Doctors'  Commons — so  he  died." 

— DON  JUAN. 

COME,  marshalled  wrath!  come,  thou  sulphuric  fire, 
With  which  the  bard,  offended,  vents  his  ire, 
And  thence  let  righteous  retribution  draw 
To  blast  this  dull  Boeotian  of  the  law. 
God  of  the  doughty  deeds  we  leave  undone, 
God  of  the  battles  we  have  never  won, 
Thou  who  presidest  o'er  the  bloody  plain 
Which  blustering  bravery  fills  with  fancied  slain, 
Aid  me  to  sing  the  Uncle  Toby  wars 
Of  this  blear-eyed,  unwounded  son  of  Mars 
Who,  with  his  puppet  army,  all  alone, 
Fights  and  achieves — no  praises  but  his  own. 

There  was  a  time,  so  dim  traditions  say, 
When  dignity  and  law  held  mutual  sway, 
When  those  aspiring  to  that  high  estate 
Which  shields  the  feeble  and  restrains  the  great 
Were  conscious  of  its  majesty,  and  sought 
To  store  the  studious  hours  with  ripened  thought, 
To  train  the  reason  and  instruct  the  tongue — 
For  eloquence  was  something  more  than  lung, — 

141 


Slow  up  the  Alps  of  erudition  crept 

And  quaffed  the  fluent  fountains  whence  they  leapt. 

Vast  grew  their  minds,  but  not  so  vast  their  pride, 

For  lengthening  leagues  rose  up  at  every  stride, 

And  the  most  dazzling  eminence,  attained, 

Still  left  infinitude  itself  ungained. 

But,  O  the  times  and  manners!  now  behold 

What  idiot  advocates  are  here  enrolled, 

With  names  recorded  high — in  self  esteem — 

And  troups  of  wealthy  clients — when  they  dream — 

While  deep  instruction  and  profound  disputes, 

Are,  as  in  Aesop's  fables,  left  to  brutes. 

Let  fancy  paint  this  prince  of  legal  quacks — 
The  reader  knows  whate'er  the  portrait  lacks. 
Lend  me  the  pencil  of  the  child  of  art 
Whose  special  province  fits  him  for  the  part. 
Murillo,  Reynolds,  Titian?     No;  I  fear 
The  work  is  better  suited  to  Landseer. 
Conceive  a  being  with  an  ambling  gait, 
Thick  lips,  thick  tongue,  but  vastly  thicker  pate, 
With  eyes  as  humid  as  his  talks  are  dry, 
At  which  the  gamins  laugh  and  nurslings  cry, 
Expressionless  in  countenance,  or  worse, 
Distorted  like  a  poetaster's  verse; 
Serving  alone  to  show  that  vulgar  hearts 
Are  always  thus  betrayed  by  outward  parts  ; 
In  short — and  yet  by  far  less  short  than  just — 
An  animated  statue  of  disgust. 
Behold  him  rise — in  his  profession?     No; 
But  in  the  court  room,  with  obtrusive  show, 
Waving  his  awkward  mindmill  arms  around, 

142 


And  stamping  to  give  force  where  none  is  found. 

What  pleadings  then  we  hear!  ye  gods  of  grace!— 

Such  as  adorned  his  beatific  face — 

How  the  round  periods,  bold  hyperboles, 

Apt  metaphors  and  wild  antitheses 

Jostle  each  other  down  the  dusty  road 

Along  which  creaks  his  dreary  mental  load, 

While  judge  and  jury  slumber  where  they  sit, 

Because  his  tongue  has  garnisheed  his  wit. 

LeSage's  doctor  in  a  vision  saw 

It  made  the  king's  uncompromising  law 

That  every  quack  attend  his  victim's  bier, 

And  for  the  life  he  took  bestow  a  tear. 

In  mercy  spare  our  times  this  dire  decree; 

There'd  be  no  sleep  from  Dan  to  Behring  sea; 

But  leave  our  lawyer  to  the  ghostly  revel 

Of  all  his  clients,  come  back  from  the  devil. 

His  conscience   (given  perhaps  in  reason's  stead)  — 

But  then  nil  nisi  bonum  of  the  dead. 

While  fattening  fools  on  fulsome  flattery  feed, 
He  takes  his  portion  as  a  rightful  meed, 
Too  dull  to  see  with  what  a  poor  pretense 
The  people  are  amused  at  his  expense; 
While,  as  when  truant  Jocko  paints  his  face, 
And  thinks  the  motley  daub  a  mark  of  grace, 
He  wrestles  with  conclusions  in  the  law 
Which  his  poor  draught-horse  logic  can  not  draw, 
And  smiles  in  pride,  because  his  listeners  smile 
"To  see  the  mile-stone  dancing  with  the  mile." 
Ah,  pitying  heaven !  from  thine  abundant  store 

H3 


Grant  him  enough  of  wisdom,  if  no  more, 

To  see,  what  all  beside  have  seen,  alas! — 

How  ably  he  can  make  himself  an  ass. 

Can  make  himself  so?     Stop,  for  you  must  know 

That  nature  did  it  for  him  long  ago. 

Take  the  tin-cup  of  thy  contracted  mind, 

If  it,  brave  barrister,  even  thou  can'st  find, 

And  drink  of  learning  with  as  great  good  will 

As  if  Pieria  were  a  mountain-still ; 

But,  lest  the  rhetoric  doctors  come  to  plague  you, 

Be  careful  of  the  tadpoles  and  the  ague. 

While  wretched  Reason  rubs  her  tearful  eyes 

And  poor,  scorned  Judgment  heaves  most  mournful  sighs, 

While  Wisdom  groans  beneath  the  brutal  heel 

Which  Folly  spikes  with  hobs  of  heartless  steel; 

While  Cassius  Cultivation's  hungry  look 

Bespeaks  the  shattered  globe,  the  rifled  book; — 

Conditions  so  untempered,   times  so  crude 

Must  needs  produce  us  a  repulsive  brood 

Who  think  that  pride  is  princely,  boasting  brave, 

And  all  may  be  sagacious  who  are  grave; 

But  never,  never  did  the  wildest  mind 

In  its  supreme  delirium  think  to  find 

Pride  so  superb  to  wit  so  sterile  joined 

As  in  this  shilling  which  Reproach  has  coined — 

"A  thinking  rose,"  if  Pascal  wills,  but  one 

Which  cankered  long  before  it  saw  the  sun. 

The  law  is  vast  and  varied,  dull  and  deep, 
And  loves  to  see  its  catechumens  creep. 
Whoever  quarries  in  its  niggard  mine 

144 


Waits  long  to  see  the  finished  fabric  shine. 

The  mother  hand  which  wipes  away  our  tears, 

Strong  to  avenge  our  wrongs  or  calm  our  fears, 

Its  codes  are  covered  on  each  mellow  page 

With  all  the  dust  and  dignity  of  age. 

Some,  drawn  in  fire,  have  been  repealed  in  flood, 

Some  blotted  out,  as  they  were  writ,  in  blood. 

From  stern  Lycurgus  and  the  ancient  days 

Which  Briton's  sons  have  sung  in  labored  lays, 

From  murderer  Moses  who  produced  the  bill 

Which  made  it  first  a  felony  to  kill, 

(Alas!  how  easy  do  we  break  his  Seventh 

By  slightly  overkeeping  the  Eleventh;) 

From  Solon,  Solomon,  and  all  the  wise 

Which  jurisprudence'  ample  lists  comprise, 

Down  to  the  legislators  who,  of  late, 

Must,   Philip-like,  so  certain  charges  state, 

Get  drunk  to  legislate — perhaps  because 

Inebriate  people  need   inebriate  laws; — 

How  vast  the  field,  how  flowerless  and  stern 

For  blunt  perceptions  to  attempt  to  turn, 

And  yet  this  brainless  barrister  presumes 

To  measure  tongues  with  Tully,  plead  with  Toombs. 

He  spits  upon  Justinian's  code,  although 

The  Institutes  he  might  do  well  to  know. 

Then  turns,  and,  with  his  supercilious  frown, 

Bids  the  plebeian's  tame  Twelve  Tables  down; 

In  short,  a  law  unto  himself,  howe'er 

Unconstitutional  he  may  appear, 

Who,  undisturbed  by  codes  or  common  sense, 

Get  Caesar's  Commentaries  mixed  with  Kent's. 

Will  you  permit  a  rhymester  to  suggest 

145 


What  you  yourself  have,  doubtless,  oft  confessed — 
Although  you  be  not  of  the  plastic  ilk 
Who  "take  suggestion  as  the  cat  laps  milk" — 
Will  you  permit,  since  Locke,  as  you  recall, 
Says  broad  minds  profit  by  the  views  of  all, — 
And  might  have  added  that  with  more  delight 
Do  those  who  have  no  views  their  views  recite, — 
Will  you  allow — now,  pray,  what  I  commend 
Regard  not  as  intended  to  offend, 
For  whatsoe'er  be  thine,  of  course  I  know 
That  my  poor  mind  and  heart  are  far  below — 
Allow  me  then  to  say,  untutored  daw, 
'Tis  time  you  learned  to  talk  or  ceased  to  caw? 

Come,  Vulcan  of  vernaculars,  attend, 

Syllabic  Cyclops,  wheresoever  denned, 

And  fashion  me  the  surest  dart  to  reach 

The  parasite  of  peace,  the  legal  leech. 

Who  sowed  the  thistles  in  the  sweet  parterre, 

Broke  down  the  rustic  gate  that  opened  there, 

Destroyed  the  barn-yard  trough,  the  mulberry  shz.de. 

And  all  the  haunts  where  gathering  farm-boys  playe^  ? 

Who  hurled  the  neat,  though  uncarved  columns  down, 

And  broke  the  crevice  in  the  roof  of  brown? 

Who  pulled  the  corn  untasseled,  made  his  wine 

From  the  rich  juices  of  the  living  vine, 

Spread  desolation  o'er  the  rolling  fields, 

And  withered  back  the  earth's  spontaneous  yields? 

He,  the  exacting  instrument  of  shame 

Who  hatched  the  written  curse  he  calls  a  claim. 

Abetting  thievery,  he  obtains  relief 

Of  conscience  by  unburdening  the  thief. 

146 


There  is  a  chaplet  for  the  stern  of  heart, 

The  cubs  who  lap  wild  milk  and  stand  apart, 

The  brown  and  brawny  who,  with  tongues  of  steel, 

Submit  and  arbitrate  their  bold  appeal. 

There  is  a  sweet  Valhalla  for  the  brave 

Who,  calm  in  conscious  glory,  greet  the  grave. 

Sedition,  sack,  even  treason's  darkening  shame, 

Like  grimy  faggots,  feed  a  rainbow  flame, 

And  pitying  tears  from  man's  admiring  eye 

Blot  out  all  blemish  when  the  daring  die. 

But  not  the  harpies  roaming  Hell  unreined, 

Not  all  the  bolts  in  Heaven's  vast  armory  chained, 

The  plague,  the  flood,  the  famine  and  the  flame 

Nor  all  the  ills  affliction's  self  could  name, 

Are  fierce  enough  to  blast  the  legal  knave 

Who  brings  destruction  but  to  rob  the  grave. 

Renown,  however  sordid  she  has  been, 

Whatever  those  least  worthy  yet  may  win, 

Awakens  her  dead  conscience  and  recoils, 

Spurns  the  red  hand,  repudiates  the  spoils, 

And,  proudly  unsuborned,  proclaims:  "Know  thou, 

There  are  no  i  .urels  for  a  branded  brow." 

I'm  done, -my  pettifogger:  champ  the  bit, 
Or  win  from  libel  what  you  can't  from  wit; 
Bring  suit  (or  have  it  brought)  against  my  verse, 
For,  God  knows,  no  one  could  need  judgment  worse. 
I'd  wish  thee  damned;  but  no!  to  such  a  breed 
The  devil  himself  has  made  a  quit-claim  deed. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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Form  L9-42jn-8,'49(B5573)444 


PS 


Bayne  - 


B345P 


Perdita  and 
other  poems 


PS 

1081 

B345P 


